


5 Times They Half-Arsed It

by KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Ass Play, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Butt Jobs, Crying During Sex, Dildos, Docking, Dry Orgasm, Exhibitionism, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, First Time, Frotting, Gratuitous Smut, Hand Jobs, I hate there's no real tag for that, Intercrural Sex, Jockstraps, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Rimming, Voyeurism, Walking In On Someone, Watford Seventh Year, forgot to mention the setting earlier oops, just really gratuitous depictions of ass eating basically, lots of feelings, lots of taint action, no homo ass eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-08-09 22:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 54,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20124745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: “Would a more kinaesthetic approach suffice, then?”“A-are you suggesting grabbing my arse?”“I’m suggesting, that since this seems to be a topic of great interest to you, Snow, I can charitably offer you a lesson in the basics.”Snow unleashes an agitated groan. Merlin, I don’t know how the boy can manage to keep up such a froth for so long. (Though I’ve somehow managed to keep up an erection for this long, so I’m not one to speak on the matter of indecorous stamina.)“You’ve never offered to tutor me in anything before!” he yammers.“Precisely.” I curl my lip at him. “So don’t expect me to ever be so generous with my offers of elucidation ever again.”Baz gets caught with a dildo up his arse, which results in an awkward conversation about the benefits of anal stimulation.Simon is admittedly curious, and, well, so long as it's something straight blokes can enjoy too, there's no reasonnotto let Baz show him the ropes...right?





	1. First Time

BAZ

I drop my head onto my pillow with a pleasured sigh as I press the slick tip of my dildo to my entrance. I never let myself get too noisy in moments like this, but ours is the only room on our floor, so I allow my sounds to escape.

It feels better, to let go that little bit and moan openly. I typically wank in the shower, but even after spelling it soundproof, I feel too unnerved getting noisy with Snow right on the other side of the door. (It’s a boon and a bane, really. I rather _like _knowing he’s just outside. Despite needing to be quiet about it.)

But Snow isn’t here—he left nearly hour ago on some stupid mission with the Mage. I can be as loud as I like (within reason), and I can take as long as I like. No need to keep it simple and to a time-limit. I have all afternoon.

I took my time cleaning and pampering and preparing myself. Now, I get to indulge.

I close my eyes and groan as I breach myself with the toy slowly, so slowly. It’s been months since I’ve had enough free-time for this. I’ve made do with my fingers now and then, but the shower is a tricky place for that sort of thing. I’ve been craving more.

I roll my hips onto the thick dildo, gasping at the sensation of it spreading me. I shouldn’t, but I let myself imagine that it’s Snow who’s filling me, that I’m overwhelmed by the size of him, that he’s groaning and marvelling at my tightness, swallowing him up.

“_Fuck_,” I whimper.

I bet Snow is noisy. I bet he has no control over the sounds that come out of him. I bet he’s awkward and gabby and fucking _wild_ once you get him going. Graceless and feral.

A long, keening sound rumbles out of me. I push the toy in all the way and give myself a few moments to simply squirm and squeeze on it. Finally, I begin to move it, leisurely at first—slowly dragging it out, then forcing it back in—then gradually picking up speed. I imagine Snow over me, arms braced on either side of my head, body trembling with pleasure and exertion as he pistons his hips into me with increasing fervour.

It’s overwhelming and extremely good. I’m panting, straining on the bed, legs spread wide. I’ve left my shirt on so I wouldn’t get cold, but as my pleasure sparks through me, I’m warmed all over. Crowley, I can’t even imagine how warm Snow must get. He’s an open flame without any provocation—this type of heated endeavour would surely turn him into an inferno. Could I even survive being fucked by him?

The old bed creaks noisily under me, only adding further texture to my fantasy. Between Snow’s barbaric nature and my excessive strength, I’m sure we could break the fucking bed. It’s a thrilling thought.

I give in to my yearnings and reach my other hand down to grasp at my painful erection. I only squeeze at the base, not looking to finish too quickly. I want to keep imagining Simon Snow fucking me senseless for as long as I can take it.

I whine and shift, spreading wider. Hungry. Always so fucking hungry.

There’s more creaking and gasping. It feels so real, I swear to Merlin, I can _smell_ him. Cinnamon, bacon. Something I’d gladly eat.

Then, there’s another sound. My brain is muddled with passion—it takes me far too long to realize how out-of-place the sound is.

The doorknob.

My eyes fly open. I look down in horror at the door—the door with a comically perfect view of my intimate goings-on—and watch helplessly as the knob finishes turning and clicks open.

There’s no time to reach for my wand. There’s no time to do anything at all.

I simply freeze, directly echoed in the way Simon Snow freezes as the door swings open and he catches sight of me.

The silence is absolute agony.

I’m pretty sure neither one of us is breathing, and I think my heart is pounding harder than it ever has (it sounds like Snow’s is pounding rather frantically, too).

I’m not sure what I expected him to do if he ever caught me. I’ve entertained the thought in my fantasies several times—so many variations of him freaking out, then slugging me or joining me (or both—the two are far from mutually exclusive). I did not, however, expect him to merely stand there in the doorway, hand still on the bloody knob, mouth opening and closing uselessly as he stares, wide-eyed, at a dildo buried in my arse.

My own bodily control is rather lacking as well. I clear my throat, on the second try.

“Snow.” I sound positively strangled.

He clearly doesn’t hear me.

“_Snow. In or out,_” I snarl darkly. “Pick one.”

Snow stumbles forward as if my words yanked him by the throat (oh, how I would _love _to), and the door slams shut behind him. The sound of it and my subsequent incredulous eyebrow lift make his eyes widen further.

“Oh. I— Wait— Um—” His eyes dart around but keep coming back to me. To my arse, specifically. “That’s not—”

I swallow against the rising panic. The reality of Simon Snow standing before me in this predicament is setting in. It’s unfathomably shameful, yet I still can’t bring myself to move.

Worse, I find myself all the more aroused.

“Going to pull up a chair?” I snap.

That breaks Snow from his stupor. He scrambles to his desk, sure to keep his hunched up back to me.

“Jesus Christ, Baz!” he sputters. I’d be far more chuffed to be in this pose, making Snow curse like a filthy Normal, if he were actually doing it with lusty delight. “What are you _doing_?!”

“You got a perfectly good eyeful, didn’t you?”

“Y—fuck—lock the fucking door!” Snow’s in a right fit, tugging at his hair aggressively.

“I usually do,” I retort. I see his spine straighten up—let him think of that how he’d like. “You shouldn’t have been back so soon.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, my bad, sorry about that!” Snow barks. I’m certain it’s supposed to sound sarcastic, but he comes across hysterical instead.

I sigh. Well. I can’t actually stay like this, and he’s clearly not about to leave. As tempting as it is to finish the task, I would immolate from embarrassment—I can already feel lava spewing up through my insides, burning me with equal parts pleasure and shame. I wouldn’t survive it.

Still, I have to wrangle this back into my control somehow. And if I can’t press my shoe to his throat, then what better way to apply some pressure to Snow than to make him even more thoroughly uncomfortable? It’s not like it escaped my notice that his eyes kept snapping back to me. Even if it was only from morbid curiosity, there’s still something in him that wants to _know_.

“Would you like one last gander before I tidy up?” I drawl, my voice teasing, sultry—and let him think of that how he’d like, too.

“Why—why the hell would I—fucking _shit_, Baz—”

I laugh, cruel and a little breathless. “Yeats and Keats, Snow, who knew you were such a prude.”

I drink in the sight of his broad back, grip the dildo, and drag it out of myself with wet finality—and a moan. Snow shudders at the noises. My toes curl.

“I’m not—” He tosses his head side to side dramatically. “There’s a difference!”

“Between what and what?” I press, enunciating sharply. Snow’s expression always pinches up all funny when I do that. I can’t see it right now, but I take pleasure in knowing I caused it just the same.

“B-between prudishness and—and _this_!” he squawks, flapping a hand in my direction.

My laugh this time is crueller. Merlin, what I wouldn’t give to shove him to his knees and test the limits of his blubbering, virginal mouth—

I hastily pluck up my pants and tug them back onto my body. Before I do something I’ll regret.

“Crowley, it’s just a wank.”

“H-hardly!”

“I pity Wellbelove, if your idea of _self_-intimacy is so vanilla.” Not that he’s even with her any longer. (And yes, I do get a sadistic pleasure from reminding him of that fact.)

I manage to get myself to my feet, wobbly-kneed and all, and collect my trousers from where I draped them over my desk chair. Snow flinches, likely fearing that I’m coming for him. Thankfully, I’ve managed to resist that urge—just.

“Don’t talk about girls,” Snow groans, “while you’re buggering yourself!”

That fucking pisses me off.

It’s grounding, really, to feel so compelled to shove Snow against the wall from both acrimony and arousal.

“You really are clueless,” I sneer, not having to force the derision in my voice. I take my time pulling my trousers on and dealing with the closures, mostly to spite him (also because it’s a more complicated affair, given how hard I still am). “All men can experience pleasure from anal stimulation, Snow, even the ones who are pathologically heterosexual.”

“Wh-what the—” Snow jerks his head over his shoulder to glare at me. His eyes still seem to be magnetized to my groin, however, and he immediately flusters anew and whips his head away again. “What the fuck does that even _mean_?”

“It _means_,” I growl, “that despite all your uptight, uneducated, pathetic overcompensating, even _you_ could find pleasure in a little arse play.”

I shouldn’t be pushing this. I should have been unabashed and laughed right in his face, _‘yes, Snow, you’re right, I’m queer, and you’ve found me pounding my ass and thinking of blokes; now, what are you going to do about it?’ _Instead, I’m skirting around the issue like a fucking coward and deflecting. I simply can’t resist driving him up the wall with discomfort, but it has to be on terms that might not make him horrifically awkward around me forever.

(It’s not that I think Snow is homophobic. There have been enough little things here and there to make me assume he’s at least not a bigot. Still, being fine with queerness in general is one thing—being fine with your _roommate’s_ queerness is another. I don’t think I could stomach him feeling preyed upon. Even if it is the truth.)

All that besides: the idea of planting enough curiosity to force a tormented Snow into exploring his arse during his next wank is simply too scrumptious to pass up.

“H-how does that—?” Snow looks over his shoulder at me again, jaw working, but only strangled sounds are coming out. I lift my eyebrow at him and wait for the inevitable stupidity. “I’m not sticking things up my bum!” he finally blurts. I roll my eyes.

“And you needn’t. Stimulating the exterior can be pleasurable enough,” I inform. Snow turns to me fully, gaping like a particularly confounded fish. I scoff. “Do you want a diagram or something?”

“What? No. Fuck. Sod off, Baz.” Then, he blusters magnificently. “I mean—no! Argh!”

I smirk. My guts feel molten, and my skin and nerves flutter like flash paper, far too close to the flame. There’s absolutely no good reason that I keep pushing this, but he’s all smoke and heat, and I’m boiling on the inside—it’s unavoidable that I’ll be burned to ash by him one day, so why not step forth boldly?

“Would a more kinaesthetic approach suffice, then?”

Snow blinks at me. I can see the gears in his head churning as he tries to suss out my meaning. Once he does, his voice is strained and pitchy: “A-are you suggesting grabbing my arse?”

“I’m suggesting,”—I press my fingers into my hair, pushing it back—Snow’s pulse quickens—“that since this seems to be a topic of great interest to you, Snow, I can charitably offer you a lesson in the basics.”

Snow unleashes an agitated groan. Merlin, I don’t know how the boy can manage to keep up such a froth for so long. (Though I’ve somehow managed to keep up an erection for this long, so I’m not one to speak on the matter of indecorous stamina.)

“You’ve never offered to tutor me in anything before!” he yammers.

“Precisely.” I curl my lip at him. “So don’t expect me to ever be so generous with my offers of elucidation ever again.”

Snow shrinks back, and I’m not quite sure how that makes me feel. I’ve always relished in making him wince, but he’s never been one to actually back down from my challenges. My insides cramp against the odd twisting of guilt—there’s no complicated tangle of arousal to go with it, this time.

It would be so very easy to right this whole thing. I could sneer and say that I’ve only been toying with him, that his blustering has gotten stale, and that I’m done with the charade. I could leave him confused and stewing and leave myself with at least a small sliver of dignity still intact.

Instead, I remind myself to stay bold as his smoke fills my lungs. If there’s one thing Simon Snow consistently does not abide by, it’s cowardice. So, I goad him. “What are you afraid of?”

That gets him, the predictable git. Snow jerks up to full-height, eyes going hard and wild. “I’m not afraid!” he baulks.

“Your excessive stuttering and sweating belie otherwise.”

“I’m just,”—Snow fleetingly drops his gaze to the persistent bulge in my trousers—“_confused._”

Oh.

Oh, oh, _oh_.

My erection had been somewhat flagging, but Snow’s confession has got my cock twitching back to full force.

In contempt of my comment on his own perspiring, I can feel an anxious sweat prickling at my back and hairline. I’m nearly choking on the thick scent of his smoke and on my desire to ravage him until he’s very, _very_ far from simply _confused_.

“Ignorance often begets confusion,” I say. I nearly recoil from the desperation evident in my voice. (Snow doesn’t seem to notice, thank the stars.)

“S-sure. I guess. —You sound like Penny.” Snow’s voice is tight, like when I have him pinned in a fight. Crowley, I’ll never be able to hear him like that the same way again—and maybe that’s just fine. Maybe, oh, just _maybe_, the impetus for such a strangled voice always had far less to do with my forearm crushed against his clavicles, and more to do with…well, with whatever all _this_ is.

I wet my lips. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about girls while on the topic of buggering.”

Snow gulps showily. “That’s not—” His eyes cease their frenzied darting about, falling on something and staying locked there. I have to clutch at the back of my desk chair to keep from swooning when I realize he’s staring at the dildo on my bed, still slick with my use. “I don’t want anything up my arse.”

“—Noted.” I can’t fathom how I’m still functional. “As I mentioned, there are forms of stimulation other than…penetration.”

Snow gives a shaky nod. “Right.”

“‘_Right_’?” I echo, stupidly.

He drags his eyes from the toy, and it’s as his gaze finds my own that I realize he hasn’t looked me in the eye this entire time. Until now. The fiery determination in the icy blue of his eyes is like a bucket of cold water—in the best possible way. I shiver.

“Right,” he says again, firmer. His jaw pushes forward—I dig my nails into my chair. “What do I…do?”

Merlin, Morgana, and Methuselah.

I don’t think I truly expected him to agree.

This is mad. I’m nauseous with nerves.

“Well....” I let my gaze do what Snow’s has so audaciously done several times now: I look at his crotch. Snow has a collection of ratty, chavvy track bottoms, but I must admit that I’ve more than come to see their…aesthetic appeal. These bottoms are one of my favourites of his: simple, neutral grey joggers that hang on his shapes with lascivious attention to detail. There’s one particular detail jumping out in far starker relief than normal. My throat is pathetically dry. “You’ll have to take those off, to start,” I rasp.

Snow has the decency to squirm under my gaze. “That’s, um—” My eyes jerk back up to his in a challenge. “That’s a bit gay, innit?”

I want to fucking murder him.

Instead, I take in a ludicrously slow breath through my nose, until my chest is burning with the expansion. “Snow, you idiotic wretch,” I enunciate with great care, “you’ve agreed to having me fondle your arsehole, but the idea of pulling down your pants for it is too gay?”

Snow scowls handsomely. “I thought I could just, I don’t know, turn around and pull ‘em down or something—! Showing you my prick is different!”

I exhale.

“Fine. There are only so many insecurities of yours I’m willing to tackle in a day.” I wave towards the en suite. “Go wash up—and do it _well_. And then,” I falter, “come out in your jockstrap.”

Snow’s flush spreads up from his neck in a fresh wave of embarrassment. He stutters out something incoherent that must be agreement, because then he’s scrambling for his jockstrap from his drawers and fleeing for the bathroom.

The opaque haze of smoke and anxiety and lust hanging in the air clears some once Snow locks himself in the loo. I gulp at the fresher air and collapse at my desk.

Morgana in a meadow, what the fuck have I gotten us into?

Rather than letting my thoughts spiral in a fit of panic, I look down at my lap and try to assess my options. I’ve been aching at half-mast, if not more, this whole time. I think I might well come in my pants at first sight of Snow’s bare arse. Or worse, I don’t and eventually pass out from blood loss. It’s not like I have much to spare.

Snow ought to be in there for a few minutes—

I tear my trousers open and clutch at myself. I bite back a whimper of relief at the contact. I usually like to take my time, tease myself into a frenzy, but I’ve been through more than excessive foreplay at this point. There’s a puddle of pre-come in my pants—I smear it along my length and gracelessly pump my hand around myself.

Crowley, I can’t believe I’m doing this while Snow’s in the loo. And he’s (hopefully) cleaning himself up. Preparing himself for me— for me to—

I throw my head back, fangs popping as I finish with a wavering groan.

I pant and shiver while coming down from the abrupt orgasm. It was too fast, rather unfulfilling even, but it will have to do. I spell my mess away and tuck myself back into my trousers before Snow catches me (again). Once I’ve calmed enough that my fangs retract, I head for my bed and spell my dildo clean. It’s as I’m setting that aside, I hear the bathroom door open. Not a moment too soon.

Oh.

Merciful fuck.

Snow is a vision.

He’s standing awkwardly in the bathroom doorway, wearing only a white singlet and jockstrap. I’ve never seen his bare legs before. His skin is a shade paler than his usual tawny glow, and his freckles and moles are more scarce as well. I’ve seen him in baggy basketball shorts once or twice, and he never made the football team, so I’ve been blessed to not be tortured by the sight of him all kitted up; his pale legs insinuate that he doesn't wear shorts often over the summer. These powerful thighs are a well-kept secret from even the sun.

“N-now what?” Snow finally asks, snapping me out of my reverie.

I clear my throat. “Lie on the bed.”

Snow flexes his jaw for a thoughtful moment, then strides over and lies back on my bed. I raise my brow at him (and ignore the hammering of my heart).

“Y-you didn’t say _which_ bed,” Snow pre-empts my complaint.

“I thought that would have been obvious.”

If Simon Snow wants to lay bare arsed on my bed, then I am in no position to argue. I kneel upright on the foot of the bed before he dares make a move to go.

Snow watches me with unwavering focus now. “Should I be on my stomach…?”

“No,” I say, too quickly. My eyes latch onto the outline of his cock through his strap. He’s most certainly half-hard—if not more. “Bring up your knees.”

Snow does so obediently—and, fuck, if that isn’t a thrill. It strikes a match in me, reigniting the torturous flames of my desire. Thank Merlin I came already, I’m impatient enough for this as is.

Snow yelps when I suddenly grab him by the hips, before I have a chance to second-guess this any longer. I yank him further down the bed and hoist his rear up into the air, bringing his arse chest-level to me.

“Baz—!”

I don’t know if it’s a sound of surprise or grievance or thrill, and I don’t care. Snow is exposed and spread mere inches from my face—I can focus on nothing else. He smells freshly of school-issued soap, but it can’t mask his usual scent, so warm and brown and delicious. It’s even thicker here.

I want to eat him.

I circle one arm across his hips, pinning him to my chest. With my other, I let my wand drop down my sleeve, and I utter a **‘clean as a whistle’** (better to be safe than sorry). Snow grunts—he hates when people cast cleaning spells on him—but he doesn’t dare complain about it. While whistles are, admittedly, not terribly clean, they _are_ clean enough to put your mouth on.

One thing at a time, Basil.

“Snow,” I warn, “I’m going to touch you now.”

“O-okay, just—_oh_....”

Snow tenses as I lightly, so lightly, run the pads of my fingers down the strip of skin between the jockstrap and his entrance. The dusty pink flesh there puckers further when I circle my touch over it. I lick my lips. I’m salivating for it.

“B-Baz—”

Somehow, I drag my gaze away from his spread arse, and I must look a fright because Snow shudders visibly when we make eye contact. I’m so hungry for him, I’m worried I’ll thrall him—perhaps that’s what has him tensing, too. Though, he doesn’t seem to be cowering at all.... Snow’s gaze is wide and enduring.

“Are you, um—” He reaches up to cup his hands over his cock and balls in a display of sheepishness that’s nearly laughable. “Are you gay?”

Without breaking my eyes away from his, I search out his hole with my thumb and push against it flatly. Snow’s lashes flutter, but he doesn’t concede as far as to blink.

“Does it matter?”

Even with most of his body up in the air, pressed down into the bed by not much more than his shoulders, Snow manages to shrug. “Yes? Maybe? I don’t know.”

“If I say no, will you stop me?” I knead my thumb pad along the puffy rim of sensitive flesh.

Snow gulps. “I…n…n-no.”

“And,” I continue, keeping my eyes on his and dipping my head down so that my breath strokes the flushed skin of his taint, “if I say yes, will you stop me?”

“_No_,” Snow exhales, far more resolutely.

“So…it doesn’t matter.”

He nods. And then…he relaxes in my hold. He lets his eyes flutter shut.

I’ve won.

Now, to get my prize.

“Snow,” I menace into the joining where hip meets groin, “I’m going to use my mouth on you.”

There’s an agonizing pause wherein I wait for his response, breath held. I am utterly certain he withholds his consent far longer than necessary, merely to spite me. I love him for it all the more.

“Yeah,” he finally emits.

I’m on him in a flash.

I swipe a firm stripe with the flat of my tongue, from just below his entrance, all the way to where his hands are redundantly covering himself. Snow unleashes a wild groan. I don’t bother hiding my hunger, he already saw it in my expression. I close my eyes and openly devour him.

I’ve no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never even kissed anyone, yet here I am, rimming the object of all my affection. It’s preposterous and obscene. And I’m hopelessly intoxicated by all of it. His scent, his taste, the reverberations of his moans, the way my own wanton sounds reverberate through _him_—

It’s all just…just so _much_.

“Fuck,” Snow whines. Then, again, “fuck!” he growls. His noises keep vacillating like that—soft and mewling or deep and feral. I wouldn’t be able to pick which I liked best if my life depended on it. All my focus goes into eliciting more sounds from him, hoping to catalogue as many as possible.

I take my time laving at him with wet abandon. He squirms in my hold, groaning and trembling. I consider lowering him—this must be terribly uncomfortable on his neck—but what little of my good sense remains is cast aside when Snow begins pushing up towards my mouth with mounting eagerness. I rumble a dark note of pleasure through him and release my grip.

Snow doesn’t miss a beat. He’s fucking brilliant in a fight, and he approaches this just the same—not giving an inch, taking whatever he can get. The second I stop pinning his hips to my chest, he’s shoving up to meet me. His ankles hook together behind my head, and that’s when I realize what a fantastic way to go this would be, smothered between Simon Snow’s thighs.

(Even if he were trying, I don’t think he could actually smother me to death, what with my vampirism. But it’s a deliciously deranged thought that I humour for several moments too long.)

Snow keens and ruts his arse against my face as I tongue at him. I grip his buttocks with both hands, stretching him open further with my thumbs. I nudge the tip of my tongue against the slight spread of his hole, revelling in the tremors of his muscles. I’ve precisely enough mind left to recall that he specified he didn’t want anything to enter him, so I remain just this side of cautious, only prodding and teasing, not breaching.

“Oh Crowley, oh fuck, Baz, _Baz_—! Oh God, oh _fuck_—!”

Snow sounds absolutely wrecked. It’s better than I imagined. I huff and moan against his heat, and there’s undoubtedly something about it that he likes because a wild shiver runs through him. It’s a feedback loop: every time I lick or prod, he emits beautiful, animalistic sounds, which in turn make me grunt and lap at him all the more urgently. My inexperience doesn’t appear to be of any detriment to Snow’s pleasure.

Ah. And there’s something else I’d like to try.

I latch my lips to the entirety of his entrance and give an experimental suck.

“_Baz_—!” he wails. Fuck, I’m never going to hear my name the same way from him again.

I thought Snow’s vocalisations and frenzied humping were licentious before, but this is a whole new level—one that I’m eager to explore.

I kiss and suckle at Snow, varying my pressure and placement to great effect, it seems. He’s so uninhibited in his responsiveness. I try to hold onto every detail of it, but he’s giving me far too much material. I suppose that’s to be expected, though. Simon Snow is always too much, in all the best ways.

I give him too much right back, unrelenting in my assault. I suck at him sloppily, savouring the symphony of sounds I can draw from his skin and his throat. He’s a snarling mess. It doesn’t escape my notice that the hands against his clothed cock have been groping and tugging in an arrhythmic fashion for some time now.

I massage his arse with my hands as I work, and I wonder what I can do to make him tumble over the edge. I suck on him tightly, drawing him into my mouth, and I let my front teeth barely graze against the abused flesh. Snow bucks in surprise, sobbing out an approximation of my name that I will never unhear. One of his hands scrabbles against my hair for purchase—I fleetingly regret he hasn’t been pulling my hair this entire time—and his heels dig into my back.

I hardly have to even repeat the ministrations with my teeth before Snow is unravelling with beastly delight. I can feel each wave of his orgasm rip through him in the twitching of his hole and the pulse of his balls. I luxuriate in it, suckling him through each surge of ecstasy.

Snow’s moans—a tremulous string of nonsense sounds—become weaker. I can sense the moment his body begins to unwind; I’m sure to circle my arms around his waist again so that he no longer needs to hold himself up. He sags in my hold, and the scent of his satisfaction hangs heavily in the air. I give him one last lick before easing him down.

Well.

Fuck.

I stare at him in a daze. Having him _not_ shoved against my nose and mouth is somehow more jarring. The reality of what we’ve done begins to fully settle in.

Snow stares back at me with a hooded, faraway gaze. His mouth is hanging open, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. I’m too aroused and, frankly, shocked to do much more than ogle him.

He blinks a few times as his brain seems to come back online. Snow’s gaze drops from my own, looking between his legs—surely at the alarmingly obvious erection I’m sporting, mere inches from his own crotch. He gulps with the full effect of that fucking showy neck of his.

I watch Snow watch me. He starts working his jaw in an attempt to say something. There’s a heart-stopping moment where I think he’s going to offer assistance—

Then he’s shaking his head and scrambling to sit up. I lean back, stupefied and staying out of his way as he fumbles to his feet.

“Um—” His voice is hoarse. It’s painfully sexy, especially knowing that _I_ caused it. “W-well! That was, uh,”—Snow stumbles towards his side of the room—“right educational.” He frantically pulls on a hoody and track bottoms, over his soiled jockstrap, and I’m still too lost in the haze of what just happened to give him hell for it.

I belatedly rub my hand over my wet mouth. _Aleister Crowley— _We really just— _I_ really just—

Next thing I know, Snow’s snatching up his trainers, mumbling out some string of words that I can’t quite make out (typical), and darting out of our room.

The slam of the door falling shut helps bring me back to my body. I unleash a long, disgruntled groan into the empty room.

And I have another frenzied, confusing, unfulfilling wank.

What the fuck have I done?


	2. Second Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What we did was…well. It was weird. And embarrassing._  
_It was his idea, though. I feel like he’s going to have to own up to that at some point. It’s not like I asked him to stick his tongue in my bum crack._  
_I might ask him to do it again, though._  
_But that’s not my top priority. Sure, yeah, I admit that the, uh, external stuff was really good. I mean, really good. Add it to the list of things Baz is good at, an extra bullet point on his exemplary CV: _‘unfairly skilled in the art of licking my nemesis’s rear until he wants to cry from bliss’.  
_What I really want is to understand what he was doing to himself._
> 
> * * *
> 
> Simon's got more questions since their last encounter, but he can't very well ask them outright. So, he tries to plot.... But Baz is always several steps ahead.

SIMON

What the fuck have I done?

I have no idea what just happened.

No, that’s not true. I know exactly _what_ happened, but I can’t wrap my head around _why_ or _how_.

It seems pretty fucking stupid to let your vampire arch-nemesis anywhere near you with his mouth. Especially—

Oh, Merlin.

I hide in a stall in one of Mummers communal bathrooms. I’m a mess, and I didn’t bring my wand with me, so I can’t even attempt a cleaning spell.

I lean against the wall of the cubicle and try to catch my breath.

I can’t get the image of Baz out of my head, his face between my legs.

He’s a vampire. I’m sure of it. I’ve never caught him feeding, though if I had to guess, it probably looks something like that did. Dangerous and shameless and sexy and hungry.

God. He looked so fucking hungry.

If he had pulled his head back and shown me his fangs, I don’t think I would have stopped him. He wouldn’t have hurt me. Not in our room, at least. And that thing he did with his teeth was fucking remarkable, wasn’t it?

A shudder runs through me.

I scrub my hands over my face. I can’t keep thinking about Baz devouring me. It can’t be healthy.

Pushing that thought away only manages to make room for different thoughts:

Like what I walked in on. How he was starkers from the waist down, ploughing himself with a sex toy. How his hands were covering most of it, but I could still tell that he’s so pale, even down there, with this kind of dull purple-pink hue.

Like the sight of his hard-on between my legs. How it filled out his trousers, how close it was to me. How badly he looked like he wanted something. How close I was to _offering_ something.

Like what he must be doing right now—

Fuck.

I’m not gay. I’d know if I was. Maybe my brain’s just all tangled from the hormones, or whatever. (Endorphins?)(I think that’s right.)

Baz said straight blokes can like that sort of stuff too. My brain must need time to catch up. That was, well, it was a lot of stimulation and…information. So, of course I’m muddled. Like when I try too hard to pay attention in class and give myself a headache and come out understanding even less than when I went in.

That’s all.

The only reason I want more from Baz is because of curiosity, yeah? He’s the one that stuck all these confusing thoughts in my head, after all. It’s just sensible that I want him to be the one to untangle it, too.

The fact that he’s really fit is a bonus—makes it easier to stomach doing stuff with another guy. Anyone would consider doing stuff with Baz, he’s just that good looking.

(Prick.)

And, really, why _not_ try to get whatever I can out of him? He’s always making my life miserable. If he’s actually willing to be charitable about this one thing, I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. (Especially if the horse is a vampire.)

Right. Yeah.

I feel better about this already.

* * *

I clean up best I can in the bathroom without anyone spotting me. By the time I get back to our room, Baz is gone. It’s a relief. I may have sorted out my thoughts on the matter, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to talk to him about it yet. Or make eye contact, even.

But I do want to talk about it sooner rather than later.

Unfortunately, Baz doesn’t seem to feel the same way. Over the next week, I hardly see him at all. Every time I enter the room, he heads out, even if I try to stop him. And every time he enters the room when I’m already there, he only spends a few moments—uses the loo, grabs a book, whatever—and then is gone again. He’s been slinking back in from the Catacombs extra late, and he sleeps in all morning until I’ve left for breakfast.

I try not to make a fuss about it. It’s not like I can really blame him. What we did was…well. It was weird. And embarrassing.

It was his idea, though. I feel like he’s going to have to own up to that at some point. It’s not like I _asked_ him to stick his tongue in my bum crack.

I might ask him to do it again, though.

But that’s not my top priority. Sure, yeah, I admit that the, uh, external stuff was really good. I mean, _really good_. Add it to the list of things Baz is good at, an extra bullet point on his exemplary CV: ‘_unfairly skilled in the art of licking my nemesis’s rear until he wants to cry from bliss’_.

What I really want is to understand what he was doing to himself.

I don’t think I’m brave enough to bring it up, though. So I’m going to have to plan ahead for once. It’s my turn to be the one plotting something.

The perfect opportunity presents itself the next Thursday.

I don’t see Baz at tea, so I leave (that’s how committed to this I am, I guess). I’m disappointed to find our room empty, but only a few minutes pass before Baz waltzes in.

He squints at me. He knows I should be with the scones right now.

“Oh, I’m just leaving!” I say quickly as I jump up from my desk.

Baz gives me a look of cool indifference. “I didn’t ask.” They’re the only words I’ve heard from him in three days, so I’m counting this as progress.

“I just mean, you can stay!” I grab my bag and start stuffing things inside: a textbook and notebook, a change of clothes. “I’m heading off with the Mage for something. Might not be back until morning.”

Baz doesn’t reply, but he does take a seat at his desk. I can feel his eyes on me as I shove random things into my bag.

“So, uh, you’ve got the room all to yourself.” I hoist the bag onto my back and give Baz a big grin. “I bet you’re glad to be rid of me for a while, huh?”

Baz only hums in response, and I take that for agreement.

“Right! Well, then!” I shove my trainers back on my feet and beeline for the door. “Enjoy your, uh, alone time!”

I run out.

* * *

I kill time stomping about through the Wavering Wood. I feel jittery, and I don’t want to think about it. I hack at branches with my sword.

About forty-five minutes later, I climb back up Mummers, taking the last flight of stairs as quietly as I can.

I take a deep breath…put my hand on the knob…and fling open the door.

Baz is on his bed, sitting up against his headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles—

Fully clothed and reading a book.

I’m stuck there, hand still on the knob, staring.

Standing in our doorway and looking at Baz in surprise is not the part I was trying to replicate.

Baz slowly drags his eyes away from his book to give me a bored look. “Back so soon?”

“Uh.” I clear my throat. Finally, I close the door behind me. “Y-yeah. He cancelled.”

“Pity.”

“Are you, uh, disappointed?”

Baz gives me a slow once over that makes something in my stomach twist. “No, but you certainly seem to be.”

I feel like I’m going to choke on my anxiety, so I cough to mask it. Baz smirks.

“Did you really think it would work?”

I sit at my desk and start unpacking my bag, just to give my hands something to do. “W-what, um, what are you talking about?”

“You thought the second you left the room for a little while, I’d start shoving toys up my arse?” Baz says it so fucking casually—I cough again. “Crowley, Snow, do _you_ start frantically wanking the second I leave the room? And here I thought you were a prude.”

“N-no!” I can feel my face heating up terribly. “I—! I wasn’t trying to catch you d-doing anything!”

Baz uncrosses his long legs, then crosses them the other way. I can see how slow and deliberate his movements are out of the corner of my eye—I can feel his cold gaze burning the side of my face. I swallow and give in to it, turning to him in my seat.

His expression makes my body clench in an unfamiliar way. He’s got this sharp grin that I’ve never seen on him before, and his eyes are fixated and dark.

Predatory.

“Why did you want to catch me, Snow?” he asks, all composed and casual.

“I—” I rub at my hair roughly. Merlin. He already knows, so there’s really no point lying about it, is there? I’m a crap liar, anyway. “I-I wanted to see you…use it,” I confess.

Baz’s eyebrow arcs lazily. “Why?”

“Um. Curiosity? A-about. About how it. Um. Fits.”

“It takes work,” he says—purrs. It sounds like a purr.

“W-work?” My voice cracks, and I wince.

“You can’t just go shoving things up there,” Baz explains. He looks so fucking poised. Like this isn’t the most nerve-racking conversation I’ve ever had. I’m sweating. “There’s cleaning to be done and a good deal of stretching.”

“_Stretching?_” I sound pre-pubescent again. (I want to crawl under my desk and hide.)

“Mm,” Baz hums. “So, I’m sorry to say it, but I won’t be able to give you any lessons on that matter today....”

I can feel my face redden further. “O-of course, that’s fine—” I really am a bad liar; Baz gives me this self-satisfied smirk, and I just know it’s because he can tell I’m disappointed.

“_Because_,” Baz drawls, “I’ve already taken care of those preliminary steps.”

I blink at him.

“What?”

Baz closes his book and sets it on his night-stand, all nonchalance. “I said it’s already taken care of.”

My mind stalls out.

“The cleaning. And stretching,” Baz explains, slow and over-enunciated, like I’m being especially stupid.

“You already....”

“Mhm.” He sprawls out against his pillows like a cat. “I can show you how I use the dildo,”—he sighs in mock apology—“but I’ll have to show you the steps leading up to it another time. So sorry, Snow.”

I can only manage to sputter uselessly as my mind tries to catch up. “How— how does—” I find my gaze drawn to Baz’s crotch, which is not a problem I ever thought I’d have, but here I am again.

Baz uncrosses his legs and draws them up, loosely bent, letting his knees casually fall open. My heart stutters. He’s fully dressed, I don’t know why I’m getting all flustered, it’s not like I’ll be able to _see_ anything—I can’t help but feel like he’s unveiling something, even so.

“There’s a plug.” His voice is honey in my ears.

“A-a plug?” I croak. All I can do is helplessly repeat everything Baz says, I’m beyond fucking mind-boggled.

“For the stretching. To keep me…available.”

I gulp.

“So— you—” I manage to drag my eyes up to Baz’s face. He’s watching me intently. “You got ready when I left?”

Baz has the decency to blush. It’s not something I see on him often. It looks good.

(I wonder if that means he fed. Does he have to feed to get a boner?)

“I did,” he admits at length. “You were so desperate, it was almost charming, Snow.”

Unfortunately, my blush is a million times stronger than Baz’s. I’m absolutely burning up. He smirks.

“Can—” I grip the seat of my chair, worried I might spring out of it otherwise. “Can I see?”

Baz’s eyes flash. He doesn’t answer right away, inhaling deep. “…All right.”

I actually sag with relief, making Baz emit a little humoured scoff. He swings his legs off the side of his bed and stands. All of him is so fucking graceful. Maybe more now than usual, even. Like he’s compensating for having a literal plug up his arse. (Fuck. Baz has a _plug_ up his arse—)

Baz is usually the poster child for indifference. Right now, though, I can see the slight tremor in his long fingers as he plucks at his belt and trouser flies. He pushes his bottoms down and—I tense—is left standing there in only his dark green, fancy socks and a sleek, black jockstrap.

My body reacts immediately. The awkward talk and anticipation were already making my cock stir with confused interest—now, I’m nearly light-headed with how fast my blood rushes south. My balls and arse tighten up at the memory of what happened in this room the last time one of us was standing around in a jockstrap.

Merlin. I hope I don’t have a _thing_ for jockstraps now. That would be rather fucking inconvenient. (And really weird.)

And, well. Baz looks rather good in one too, doesn’t he? Fit bastard. He makes anything look good, even those stupid posh socks of his.

Baz doesn't undress any further than that, thankfully. We always hide from each other when getting changed, so this is already strange enough.

His legs somehow manage to be both sleek and muscular. Obviously, I've seen him in his football clothes often enough to know exactly what those thighs look like when he sprints across the pitch and how his muscles shift with all his expert footwork. This is something else entirely.

Baz is quiet as he sits back on his bed and fluffs his pillows. He gets himself comfortable, partially on his hip, legs together off to the far side, torso propped up by the pillows. His usually grey-tinted skin looks flushed and pink in comparison to the stark black lines of his jockstrap. It's right fucking mesmerizing.

Baz clears his throat—I snap my gaze away from what I can see of his bare arse. He's blushing and quirking a brow at me.

“Take a picture, Snow, it will last longer.”

I bluster a bunch of fucking nothing, and Baz laughs. It's his usual mocking laugh, but it's impossible to feel too agitated about it when he's all pink-cheeked and—well, pink-cheeked.

“Tell me,”—he rests his chin in his hand and reaches into his bedside table with the other—“what are you hoping to learn?”

“Wh-What?”

“You said you didn't want anything up your bum.” Baz pulls his dildo out of his drawer and sets it down next to him. I flush at the sight of it. “Your curiosity is unexpected.”

“Uh, well, um.” I squirm in my chair, gripping and releasing the seat over and over. “I just don’t get it. How it could, you know, um, feel good.”

“And so,” Baz says, pulling out a small bottle of something (lube, I assume) before closing the drawer, “you want a demonstration.”

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. “Yeah. Yes.”

Baz studies me for a moment. He looks…apprehensive. We both have every reason to be apprehensive, I guess. This is a pretty fucked up thing for enemies to be bonding over. (Bonding can’t possibly be the right word—)

“All right, Snow,” he agrees after a long beat. “I’ll show you.”

My heart’s sputtering wildly.

Baz tucks his legs higher up alongside him on the bed. From where I’m sitting, at the end of his bed and a little to one side, I now have a much better view of his arse cheeks and the bulge of his jockstrap, peeking out between his pressed thighs. I angle my head—

Baz shifts his weight fully onto one hip, giving me an unobstructed view.

_Oh_.

I guess _that’s_ the plug.

There’s some kind of flared base sticking out from Baz’s arsehole. It’s a dark reddish-purple colour, iridescent and glimmering. It suits him perfectly. Fuck, Baz _would_ have an elegant toy up his bum. It looks like some kind of precious jewel.

“What, um....” I wet my lips, watching Baz’s index finger reach down to touch. He circles his finger at the spot where the plug enters his body. I angle my head more, trying to see around the base. “What do you want in return?”

“What do you mean?” Baz is probably making a face at me, but I can’t be bothered to glance away from my view.

This is mad, isn’t it? I’m staring at Baz’s arsehole, deliberately watching him touch and tease it. This has to be mad.

This has to be a trap.

“You’ve got to be plotting something,” I say, and I actually manage to sound firm about it. “Making me indebted to you, or tricking me somehow. Something.”

“I can’t do one nice thing for you without it being a plot?”

I shake my head. “Doubt it. You’re not that decent.” I finally flick my eyes up to Baz’s to find him sneering. He’s so insufferable—I want to wipe that shitty look off his face. I want to see him crumble. I want to see him desperate.

“If you’re so suspicious of my motivations,” he says, “then perhaps I should stop.”

“No,” I insist. Baz lifts an eyebrow at the strictness of my voice. “You said you’d show me. Do it.”

Baz’s nostrils flare. I know that look. I’ve seen it many times before he strikes—sometimes with words, sometimes with hands. But he’s in no position to attack right now. He’s bare arsed and vulnerable. Even his sneers can’t hide that.

A thrill runs through me at the thought.

“Fine,” he relents in a huff.

I shift in my seat, getting more comfortable, and I watch as Baz opens the bottle and drizzles lube on the dildo. He smears it all over with his fingers. My cock twitches, empathetic to the sweep of Baz’s touch along the toy. I set my jaw and look away—it’s too flustering, and I want to stay in control. The only person I want falling apart right now is him.

“How long can you keep that in there?” I ask, fixing my gaze back to the plug. I wonder what it’s shape is, how big it is. I’m nearly leaping from my chair with my eagerness to pull it out.

“Two or three hours.”

“What? A-are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.” Baz slides his lube-slicked fingers around his entrance. My breath catches as he curls his touch around the base of the toy and barely starts to tug. “And I’ll let you in on a little secret, Snow.” Baz keeps tugging—I dig my fingers into my chair—and I start to see his hole get pulled along with the painfully slow drag of the plug. “Sometimes,” he breathes, “I wear it in the room. While you’re here.” The plug’s getting wider, stretching him, pulling him. I’m clawing at my seat. I’m dizzy. I can’t fucking fathom what I’m seeing, and the things he’s saying don’t make any sense— “I’ll sit right there at my desk, and you’ll have no idea it’s inside of me.”

Suddenly, there’s a harsh, wet sound as the plug pops out of Baz’s arse, and I swear to Merlin, I groan as loud as he does.

Baz’s hole is shuddering—all of him is shuddering. He’s open and leaking, and I think maybe I should find this disgusting. It’s way past obscene. This is another bloke’s stretched open arsehole. No—it’s _Baz’s_. It’s Baz’s hole, on full display for me. I asked him to show me, and here he is, head thrown back, panting hard, trembling and exposed. My cock throbs.

“Fuck....”

I’m not even sure which one of us says it.

Baz collects himself enough to set down the used plug. It’s nowhere near as large as the dildo is, but it’s still big enough that it makes me a bit queasy to think of inside of myself. It looked so good inside Baz, though. He makes everything look _so fucking good_—

I still suspect he can read my mind because then he’s teasing me: “how’s the view?” Baz sounds breathless but still annoyingly composed. I can’t wait to hear him fall apart.

“You’re lying, right?” I ask. “You don’t really wear that in the room.”

“I do.” He plucks up the dildo.

“No way. How could I not notice that?” I persist.

“Because you’re an excessively oblivious dimwit, Snow.”

“And you’re a fucking prick.”

Baz grins. He languidly drags his tongue across his lips and swirls the tip of the dildo along his swollen rim—I don’t know where I’d rather look. All of him is wet and plush and inviting. I bet either end would look good taking a dick.

I’m dribbling pre-come at the thought, making my pants stick to me. It sure would be something, shoving Baz Pitch to his knees and watching him wrap those cruel lips around me. That would shut him up for a little while.

“I’ll notice next time,” I growl.

“_Oh_....” Baz’s lashes flutter. I’m not sure if it’s because of my threat or the fact that he’s starting to push the toy at his entrance. “And then what?” he pants.

I swallow and readjust the tilt of my hips, pressing my crotch down into the seat, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure. “If I catch you,” I warn, “then you’ll have to show me again.”

Baz croons a note of pleasure, and the head of his dildo gets swallowed up. I gasp at the greedy way Baz’s body pulls the fake dick inside. He’s so eager to be filled again. It’s like he’s made for this.

“Cha—nngh....” Baz shivers and pushes the toy in deeper. “—challenge accepted, Snow.”

I bite my lip and try not to get overly excited about Baz’s wavering voice. Really though, I’m desperate for it. It’s an effort not to grab the dildo and make him scream. Or maybe beg. Jesus Christ, I’d pay to hear Baz beg for me.

Baz twists and arches, getting better leverage to start moving the dildo in and out of his body. Our room is filled with his broken gasps and the occasional wet sounds of the mess he’s making. The visual of Baz fucking himself is absolutely hypnotizing. Each of his moans is a spell as he perfectly executes a disappearing act with the toy again and again. I’m completely enthralled.

Oh.

Maybe I am. Enthralled. Maybe he’s done something to me. That would explain why I’m panting and grunting, just from watching him. I’m pretty much humping into my chair at this point. It’s useless, but that isn’t stopping me.

No…that’s not right. I don’t really think I’m thralled. I think…I think I just really like seeing my enemy undone.

There’s a part of me that feels awful about these thoughts, but that part’s having a lot of trouble getting through the haze of how into this I am. It’s just so fucking thrilling to see Baz succumb. It’s humanizing.

Maybe I shouldn’t be humanizing my enemy. Especially because he’s a vampire. Except…like this, he’s not any of those things. He’s not a dark creature or a villain or the posh dickhead with perfect marks.

He’s just a boy. A boy who’s quivering and whimpering and stupid with pleasure.

“Ah…fuck,” Baz whines. It’s a foreign sound, coming from him. I get goosebumps all over.

Baz is mewling as he works the dildo in and out with this intricate rhythm I can’t follow. It’s obvious he knows exactly how to draw out his pleasure and make himself sing.

I drag my gaze up to Baz’s face—I literally growl when I see his expression. He’s flushed and his mouth is hanging open and his brow is all drawn up and his eyes are hooded and darkened by his wide pupils. He’s a wreck. And he’s staring right at me.

He doesn’t need to thrall me to draw me in, does he? He just has to keep giving me that pleading, ravaged look, and all I can do is want to make him push his boundaries more and more.

I want to know just how depraved Basilton Grimm-Pitch can be.

Before I know it, I’m on my feet and clearing the few steps to Baz’s bed. He tenses up, stopping his thrusting, and he gives me this look that’s confused and…well, fearful, I think. It makes something in me squeeze uncomfortably.

“I…I’m not going to hurt you,” I assure. I feel sick with the thought. Baz has never flinched away from me before.

Baz just breathes heavily and bites his lip. He runs his gaze all over me, stalling on my crotch. I’m pathetically hard. It would be embarrassing if he weren’t literally ploughing his arse for show. I feel like getting hard was pretty inevitable. Who wouldn’t get turned on by this?

“All right…,” Baz relents. He gives a nod towards the foot of the bed where I’m hovering. “Sit.” He slowly starts moving the toy again.

I crawl up and settle in, less than an arm’s reach away, but just far enough that no part of us is touching. I grip my bulge and readjust it. I’m so painfully aroused, even that much attention makes me grunt. So, I keep my hand there and just hold on. Baz’s eyes stay on my crotch the whole time.

I go back to watching his arse. Baz fucks himself slower now, like he’s really relishing in it. He rolls his hips into the movements and moans out these long, beautiful melodies. The lube is making fainter squelching noises than before, though it’s still lewd as hell.

But I want more.

Baz shivers when I pick up the bottle of lube. His eyes are hazy and wild as he tracks my every movement. I flip open the cap and hold it over the dildo, and I give him a questioning glance. He jerks his head in a quick nod—so eager.

I squeeze out what I think is a generous amount. Baz whimpers when he pushes it in.

“Cold,” he whines, but that doesn’t stop him from grinding his hips into another thrust. “Oh…oh, fuck....”

The sloppy sounds from earlier are back, and then some. I’m literally panting at how pornographic it all is. Baz is squirming and picking up speed again, so he must really like it, too. He’s a mess. It’s filthy.

“Let me,” I rasp, “let me smear it around for you.”

“_Fuck._ Snow, _yes_.” Baz tugs it out until just the head is inside him, giving me most of the length to work with. “Do it.”

I drizzle out way more lube into my hand and hurriedly flip the cap back on and toss the bottle aside. I put my clean hand back over myself and hover my lubed hand over the whole scene, suddenly unsure.

“Snow,” Baz growls. My cock jumps in my hold. _Merlin_—I wouldn’t mind him calling me Snow if it always sounded like _that_—

I take a deep breath and touch my fingers to the toy. It’s wet, and the lube _is_ cold, like Baz said, but the dildo itself is warm—I guess from Baz’s body heat. Which is strangely sexy. I give my own dick one long tug through my trousers as I slide my fingers down the length of Baz’s dildo. And then up. And I do it again, and again, making sure to coat it well.

“Snow,” he says again. Baz is shaking with restraint as he watches me work.

“More lube’s better, right?” I wonder how long I can make him wait for it.

“_Snow_.” It sounds like a warning this time. I tug on myself again.

“You’re so impatient.” I wrap my thumb and forefinger around the dildo and give it a wank. It jostles the part left in Baz—he throws back his head with a moan. “So fucking needy.”

“Enough—” he gasps. “I need to—”

“Need to what, Baz?” I stroke it again, and myself, too.

“Snow—!”

“You have to say it,” I grunt. “You’re not being a very good teacher. You have to tell me so I’ll understand.”

Baz snarls and gives me a petulant glare. He’s flushed and sweating and overwhelmed with sexual frustration. He’s beautiful.

“I need to fuck myself,” he snaps. “I need to come.”

I bite back a groan. “Go ahead, then.”

“Don’t you dare look away,” Baz hisses. And then he shoves the dildo back inside, knocking my touch loose in the process.

I definitely don’t look away. I watch the entire time, every detail of Baz’s sudden, frantic climb to orgasm. He’s whining and got his hand clamped over his mouth, and he’s squirming and squeezing his thighs together to give his cock something to press against, and he’s thrusting and dripping and arching and tensing and—

_“Nnnn—!”_

Baz shoves it in hard one last time—his whole body seizes up as his orgasm hits. Each wave of pleasure causes his rim to pulse around the toy, and my dick aches desperately in return. Baz starts to jerk the dildo in and out of his twitching hole again, rolling his hips, greedy and urgent, trying to ride out the sensations as long as possible.

I finally look away, but only so I can see his expression instead.

He’s shivering and whimpering over and over into his hand. He looks like he’s in pain and so intensely blissed out at the same time. He’s fucking breathtaking.

I’m clumsily tugging at myself through my trousers during all of this—I can’t stop.

Baz’s movements eventually slow to a stop as he comes back down. His eyes flutter open. It’s when his gaze finds mine, giving me a dazed look through his lashes, that I feel my body suddenly race towards orgasm.

“Fuck—” I rush to snap my gaze back down to Baz’s arse, since I think that’s what I should be looking at when I finish, not Baz’s pretty eyes.

Baz shivers as he slowly _drags_ the toy out of himself. Before he’s even finished, I choke out a wild sound between my clenched teeth and come.

I squeeze my eyes shut and palm at myself until I’m completely spent.

By the time I open my eyes, Baz has already fully removed the toy and shifted his hips flat to the bed so all I can see is the faint bulge of his softening cock in his wet jockstrap.

I’m still panting and lost in those final fuzzy moments of orgasm, so even Baz’s spent dick seems appealing to me.

I realize Baz is watching me closely, particularly my hand on my crotch. It’s a little late to be embarrassed about coming in my pants in front of Baz, given everything else that just happened.

He licks his lips.

Then he pushes himself off the bed.

“Satisfied?” Baz asks, still sounding so breathless, just the way I wanted it.

He pads away to the bathroom, toys in hand, legs unsteady. I don’t take my eyes off him.

“Y-yeah,” I say.

I think maybe that’s a lie.

Because in class the next morning, I watch as Baz takes his seat up ahead of me. I watch the way he hesitates, and the way he tenses as he settles in. All I can think about is how last night he fucked himself in front of me until he was sore.

And as I fight off an erection all through our first class of the day, I think maybe I’m never going to be satisfied ever again.


	3. Third Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s nothing Snow could do to me that would ever be as bad as the hurt I cause myself._   
_Like right now, for instance. I’ve made the absolutely brainless decision to see if Snow would make good on his threat. Even though I know we need to keep pretending nothing ever happened. Even though I know this can only end in flames._   
_But I’m so cold. And he’s the only thing that makes me feel warm._
> 
> * * *
> 
> Simon is more observant than Baz expects—so Baz gives him an exam to see just how much he's learned.  
He's quizzed on the basics, but the real assessment requires a long-form answer: Simon Snow, what do you do when you have your nemesis at your mercy?

BAZ

I think I might never be satisfied ever again.

This is torture.

We haven’t spoken about it. Obviously.

I don’t avoid the room any longer, though I do have to keep reigning myself in from _deliberately_ being in the room when Snow is there.

It’s extremely moronic to expect something else to happen between us. Extremely dangerous, too.

I’m thrilled I made Snow so confused and aroused that he felt compelled to try to catch me in the act—but I’m not so misguided by love and lust to think he actually _wants_ me. Not the way I so yearn for.

This is a power play. I can see it in the jut of his chin and the glint in his eyes. He loves seeing perfect, composed Basilton Pitch debauched, all just for him.

Thank magic he has no idea how desperately I want to submit to him. I might have agreed to anything when he came to join me on my bed. I’d let him pull out the toy and use me as a fucksleeve if that’s what he wanted. I’d do anything, just to have him truly desire me for that one moment.

I’ve been in over my head ever since I realized I’m in love with him—earlier, even. _This_ is an all-new low.

It’s been nearly three weeks, and I haven’t been able to get those two encounters of ours out of my mind. I’ve never been so aggressively desirous for so long. Even my entire summer of wanking to fruitlessly rid myself of him can’t compare to how many times I’ve yearned to come from his touch these past three weeks.

I wake every morning, achingly erect, my dreams of him still licking hot flames through my veins. I lock myself in the shower, turn the water as hot as I can bear it, and rut into my fist and onto my fingers, whimpering his name into the tiles.

My shame echoes easily in the acoustics of the bathroom—it would be so convenient to forget to soundproof the room and let myself cry out for him, let him _hear_ me. He could come in and watch, force me to continue for his pleasure. Or he could shove me against the shower wall and take me right there.

I never _actually_ let myself forget to cast the spell. And I never let myself get too loud, either. Still, every morning, it’s another feverish wank followed by a foreboding hunger and despair that only grow deeper.

I want him so badly, no matter the price.

Having one’s nemesis exposed and vulnerable at your feet would bring out the worst in any man. I’d worry he’d take it too far, but Simon Snow doesn’t seem to have a single bad bone in his body. Snow’s worst is providing me with more lube, apparently.

Besides, there’s nothing Snow could do to me that would ever be as bad as the hurt I cause myself.

Like right now, for instance. I’ve made the absolutely brainless decision to see if Snow would make good on his threat. Even though I know we need to keep pretending nothing ever happened. Even though I know this can only end in flames.

But I’m so cold. And he’s the only thing that makes me feel warm.

So, here I’m sat now, at my desk in our room, with Snow sitting at his own…and I’ve got the plug in my arse.

It’s unfathomably foolish of me. Yes, I’ve worn it with him around before. It’s been my own private comfort for knowing I could never have him—at least I could derive _some_ sort of sexual pleasure while breathing the same air as him.

But now Snow _knows_. I told him because I couldn’t resist seeing his reaction.

(Oh, what a reaction it was....)

He won’t be able to tell. I’m well tucked into my jockstrap, with pants over that, and then my trousers—and the desk covers most of my lap, as well. He’ll never know I’m half-hard and squeezing onto the firmness of the plug inside me.

Those orgasms, after I’ve teased myself like this with him so close by, are so fucking worth it. I’ve only allowed myself the depravity of it a small handful of times, fearful it might turn into something reckless.

It nearly did.

I almost blacked out the last time—Snow was trying to finish up an essay and had the audacity to leave for dinner _late_. I had the plug in me an hour longer than I had anticipated, and when he finally left, I was a light-headed disaster; my pants were pooling with precome.

My satisfaction afterwards was immense, only heightened by how long I strained for it.

After that, I told myself I wouldn’t wear it around him again.

I’m a constant disappointment to myself.

I do my best to focus on the textbook in front of me, when all I want to do is grind myself onto the plug until I come. If I clench repeatedly in the right way, it pushes on the perfect spot. I’ve never let myself be so ludicrously brazen as to milk myself to orgasm with Snow there, no matter how tempted I am. But…

Perhaps I could. The concept of rocking my hips and openly moaning despite his proximity is almost too tantalizing to pass up. I’ve little doubt he wouldn’t respond in some delicious manner.

He could sputter. Or grip himself while watching me. Or bend me over the desk and replace the plug with his prick. He could be panicked or grateful or cruel.

I’d take anything. I’d take whatever he gives me.

I don’t actually possess the nerve to find out.

No. I’ll keep this to myself. Sometime later, if the opportunity ever arises, I can torture him with the knowledge of it—that he failed to notice _again_.

“Baz?”

Despite the slow calm of Snow’s delivery, I startle.

I cease tapping my pen—something I hadn’t quite noticed I was doing. (Crowley, how long have I been doing that?)

“What?” I snap. I don’t take my eyes off my book.

Snow’s answer doesn’t come. I wait a few beats longer, in case he’s being his usually ineloquent self. Still, no response.

I _tsk_. Was that merely a passive-aggressive way of asking me to stop with the tapping? I’ve never known Snow to be so indirect.

At the mere thought of it, I begin tapping the pen again, without even meaning to. The sound of Snow shifting in his chair alerts me to the nasty habit anew. I grunt and toss the pen out of my hold, letting it skid across my desk. Don’t need the bloody thing anyway.

“Baz,” Snow says again, this time sounding more obviously curious.

I snarl at my book. “_What_?”

If I were like Snow—and by that I mean possessing a frightful lack of control over my magic—I would immolate myself and my desk with embarrassment when he next speaks:

“You’re wearing the plug, aren’t you?”

Everything burns—my face, ears, and neck with a hot rush of shame; my core with an acidic splash of anxiety; my nerves with the painfully hot buzz of panic flooding my limbs.

“Why would you think that?” I manage to reply. I sound eerily steady. Perhaps I’m dissociating; after all, fleeing my body to be away from this predicament—made entirely of my own idiocy—seems like a solid plan.

“Well,” Snow says slowly. Is he staring at me? How long has he been staring at me? “You’ve been reading the same page for a long while now, and you’ve been tapping that pen…and you’re sat a little funny.”

(Forget immolating due to a lack of control; I should do it consciously. That’s the easiest way out of this situation—)

“And usually,” Snow continues, because he is my constant foil and I hate him oh so very much, “those are the signs I shouldn’t fuck with you, because you’re extra nasty when you’re like this.”

(He’s right. I’m needlessly cruel if Snow tries to speak with me in times like these, even by my own standards—)

“But now you’ve got me wondering…if it’s quite literally because you’ve got a stick up your arse.”

(If only I were as keen on murdering _him_ as I so often claim to be. His demise would be the end of so many of my problems—)

I inhale sharply through my nose in an attempt to ground myself, and I slap my textbook shut.

Given I won’t be getting out of this by offing one of us, my only other options are to fight or flee.

And since the deep gouge of my masochistic streak is what brought me to this moment, it seems excessively cowardly to flee—no matter how badly I’d like to.

I lean back in my seat (carefully) and angle my head towards Snow, giving him a cool stare down my nose.

“What if I do?” I drawl.

Snow’s face is blotchy, belying his embarrassment despite the focused intensity of his gaze. The look he’s giving me sends a jolt right through my cock.

“I told you,” he says, “that I’d make you show me.”

I curl my lip—Snow visibly gulps. “And how do you plan on _making_ me, Snow?”

Ah, it’s so easy to cause him to bluster. What a magnificent one this is, too. He’s all flushed and frazzled, stuttering out nonsensical attempts at assuring me he wouldn’t _really _‘makeme’ do anything I don’t want to do.

I bark out a bitter laugh. “Enough sputtering, Snow. With our history, I’d have thought you’d be elated to force me into something shameful for your pleasure.”

Snow shoots up out of his chair. “No!” he sputters. “That’s not— I wouldn’t—!” He looks so horrified at the concept, I almost feel bad suggesting it. “Is that—? Is that what this is? Because I don’t— I don’t _want_—”

“_Enough_,” I say again, firm and sharp. And then, softer, I add: “Relax. I was only teasing you. I know our dear, virginal Chosen One would never be so selfish.”

Snow frowns exquisitely, jaw clenched and cocked. That’s better. I adore a good Snow strop, even more so when he starts looking all flinty and ready to launch himself at me.

(And, _oh_, maybe he wants to launch himself at me for a different end than usual—something so much more physical than a brawl.)

“Perhaps,” I continue, letting my voice shift again, this time to something more alluring, “I could tempt the hero to _indulge_ a little. Come, Snow.” I get myself to my feet, plant my hands flat on my desk, and angle my hips back enticingly. “You’ve got your nemesis in a very precarious predicament—it would be foolish of you to pass up such an opportunity, hm?”

Snow pumps his fists at his sides. “I’m— you’re—”

I lick my lips, and his gaze flashes, like a bull provoked with a fluttering _mutela_. “Go on,” I urge. “_Make me_.”

My breath catches in my throat as he takes a stumbling step towards me. Yes_, yes—!_

Then Snow grunts and shakes his head and takes two steps back.

Merlin and Morgana, am I going to have to resort to _begging_ him to use me? I open my mouth, ready to protest his retreat, but Snow fixes me with a refreshed scowl—I clench around the plug reflexively.

“_Show me_,” he demands. The gruffness of his voice makes my knees weak. That’s the voice he’s caressed my senses with in many a scuffle. He has no idea the lengths I’d go for that voice—for _him_.

“What do you want me to do?” I breathe.

Snow’s gripping the back of his chair, barely holding himself together. “Drop your trousers,” he orders.

_Oh._

This is even better than him launching himself at me.

My hands tremble with nervous excitement as I pluck at my belt and flies. I press the fabric over my hips, and my trousers easily slip the rest of the way to the floor on their own. My heart’s pounding harshly in my ears, but so’s his—it’s getting hard to discern which is which.

Snow fixes his gaze on my arse. I’m wearing stylish dark grey trunks with a faint geometric pattern, and I happen to know I look fantastic in them. Snow aggressively chews on the inside of his cheek as he stares. It’s an effort not to preen.

“Now—” Snow’s voice wavers. He clears his throat and tries again, more forcefully. “Now your pants.”

I have to take a moment—partly to relish in it and partly to drum up the nerve without growing too faint. This is nothing like the previous two times. I’m unprepared for what’s to come, despite this being completely of my orchestrating.

“_Baz_,” Snow urges. My eyes flutter shut as the sound of my name, so gravelly in his long throat, causes a hot coil of pleasure to writhe through my groin.

I keep my eyes closed and hang my head, unable to face him any longer. I press my thumbs into the elastic of my pants and work them over my hips, pausing once they’re midway down my thighs. I’m short of breath and full of shame.

Snow emits a groan from low in his throat at my unveiling.

He must know I hoped to be found out. Otherwise, there would be absolutely no reason for the jockstrap I’m wearing. It’s merely there as a nod to Snow’s preposterous hypothesizing that this would all be _far too gay _without it. (Simon Snow is an idiot.)

I’m not sure how long we both simply stand there like that, our harsh breaths the only sounds to fill the room.

“What,” Snow finally speaks, sounding only half as authoritative as he did before, “would you have done? Got off with me sitting there?”

“Crowley, _no_,” I grunt. “I’m not that well-composed.”

I can hear Snow smirk at that. “You wanted me to catch you. Didn’t you, Baz?” When I don’t respond, he gives me a new order: “_Tell me_.”

“Yes,” I blurt too quickly, too _eagerly_—Snow growls. “I wanted to see if you were good on your word.”

“Well, I’ve made you show me,” Snow points out, as if I’m not frightfully aware of the fact that I’m bare arsed with a toy inside me—again—for his perusal. “What’s next?”

“Next…?” I repeat stupidly.

I hear Snow shifting behind me, so I brave glancing over my shoulder at him. He’s released his white-knuckled grip on the chair in order to step towards a better view. I’m deliriously pleased. I feel compelled to widen my stance and push my hips back, offering more. It looks like it takes Snow a great deal of effort to drag his gaze away, up to my own.

“You must have a plan, right?” Snow asks. “For…my next lesson.”

Sweet summer Seuss. I don’t know if Snow’s giving me an out or if he truly is so naive as to think this is really all some _lesson plan_ of mine.

“Actually, it’s time for an assessment,” I say, drawing out my vowels and clipping my consonants menacingly. Snow’s expression twitches. “Show me how much you’ve learned, Snow.”

Snow has a variety of different swallows, just as he has a variety of different grunts and shrugs. This swallow is one of the long, gulping, pornographic ones. I want to lave at his throat and have him do that against my tongue.

“A test?” he chokes out, eyes falling back to my rear. “H-how?”

“Under my bed,” I offer after a brief hesitation. “There’s a box.”

“A box,” Snow murmurs to himself. He stumbles towards my bed as if magnetically drawn to it and falls to his knees—and _Crowley_, that’s agonizingly appealing.

Snow roots around under my bed. (I’ll have to find a new hiding place now—not a lot of options in a shared room.) He withdraws the box in short order. His hands shake as he removes the lid, uncovering my small collection of sexual paraphernalia.

“You know what to grab,” I tell him. In the interim, I step completely out of my pants and trousers so that I can widen my stance more comfortably.

There’s not much in the box other than the dildo and lube. (Though he does decide to torture me by lifting the bullet vibe and giving it a curious once over.) He pushes himself up off the floor and takes cautious steps towards me, holding the lube in one hand and the dildo in the other. It’s unspeakable, seeing Snow’s hand wrapped around the toy. I have to hang my head again, unable to watch for fear of exploding—perhaps in more ways than one.

Snow’s dawdling behind me. I can hear his mouth opening and closing as he wrangles with whatever insipid thing it is he’s trying to say.

“The test clock’s running, Snow,” I snark at him. I can’t handle standing here on display any longer. I _need_ this—I’m thrumming with it.

Snow seems to shake himself from whatever uncertainty was plaguing him—he strides up next to me at my desk and stands the toy up, then resolutely begins drizzling and smearing lube over it. I fucking _whimper_ at the sight.

He has the gall to flash me a grin. I want to punch him and mount him, all in one swoop. Or I could throw him to the ground and ride his imbecilic, smirking face—surely he’d be just as good at eating _me_ as he would anything else.

I’m seriously debating changing the assessment, make him rim me like I did him.

Or…perhaps I could have my cake and eat it, too. Surely Snow would understand such a desire.

I lean over the desk more, push my ass out _more_, and I give Snow a sultry look. “That’s plenty,” I tell him. My voice is traitorously thick with lust. “I’ll pass it to you once I’m ready.”

Snow looks confused (of course). He blinks at me owlishly.

“There’s something you need to do first,” I say, swaying my hips, and Snow is absolutely entranced with the movement.

“R-right.”

Snow slips behind me and out of my sight. I hold my breath—then release it with a shudder when his fingers grip the base of the plug. He starts to pull on it. It feels nothing at all like when I do it. I have no idea what his actions will be, his pace or his technique.

I’m suddenly rather terrified, burning in a hell of my own making.

It’s as he slowly drags the plug out of me until I’m left open and gasping that I realize there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

Snow’s breaths are heavy behind me, as if he’s the one left overstimulated and quivering by the love of his life.

I watch through hooded eyes as he gracelessly deposits the plug on my desk. He hovers a tremulous hand over the dildo. I meet his questioning gaze and almost nod my assent. But he’s worrying his lip with his teeth and his tongue, and I’m reminded of exactly what I want him to do with that sinful mouth.

“Not yet,” I rasp. “This is a comprehensive, Snow.” The witless muppet, he just keeps blinking at me. I roll my eyes. “What was your first lesson?”

Snow’s expression twists up thoughtfully, and he keeps gnawing at that _fucking lip. _If he draws blood, this might turn into a disaster. I am thankfully saved from such a turn of events—the light bulb in his head goes off in a laughably obvious fashion.

“_Oh_,” Snow croaks.

“That’s right,” I purr.

A wave of panic washes over Snow’s expression, and I start to fear I’ve pushed things too far, been too greedy—

But then the courageous fuck kneels down behind me and grasps my arse with both hands. His breath flutters over my sensitive skin as his mouth hesitates nearby—I want it so badly, I could cry. Mercifully, he only waits a moment. And then I _do_ cry, keening out a mangled sound as his hot tongue swipes flatly against me.

It’s awful and perfect all at the same time. I feel like I’m dying. I feel like I’m melting, like everything in me is molten. Like I cease to exist except for the exact place where his heat means mine—

Fucking— _fuck_.

Is this what I made him feel like? Would it feel like this if it were anyone’s mouth there? Does being rimmed by the man you love make it that much better? That much more overwhelming?

Probably. Because as I pool away into a blubbering mess of nothingness, all I can sense is _him_. His breaths huffing against my skin, his rough hands squeezing my arse, his tight grunts resounding through my core, his wet tongue drawing burning patterns against my loosened entrance.

He’s unsteady yet confusingly, charmingly eager. I want to reach back, dig my fingers into his curls, and hold him fast. I want to rut against him in the exact rhythm that I need.

I don’t think I have the faculties to do it. I feel boneless and stupefied. I’m unleashing a litany of embarrassing noises and my hips are rocking uselessly. I’m desperate to use him for my satisfaction, but there’s not a single corner of my brain that’s coherent enough to figure out _how_.

All I am is heat and ache. Snow is licking and sucking, and it’s driving me mental. He’s noisy about it—all smacking lips and heated groaning. It’s impossible to believe he isn’t loving this. Which only heightens my maddening pleasure.

I need to come. Though, despite how keen for release I am, I’m not actually in any great rush to end this—I would love to have Snow eat me out all evening—but it’s far too dangerous to allow myself such a prolonged state of arousal-induced witlessness. I might say something I shouldn’t mean. It’s bad enough I’m gasping his name whenever he pushes his tongue in just the right way. I need to end this while I still have some dignity.

“Tha..._ahn_....” I lower myself onto my elbows, my arms too weak to hold me up fully. “That’s enough—”

“Mmm?” Snow mumbles around a mouthful of teased flesh, sending the sound right through me.

It’s supremely difficult to ask him to stop when he’s suckling me with such abandon. I find myself pushing my hips back into the feel of it, even as I say it again: “That’s enough, Snow.” Then, Snow tries to do that thing with his teeth that I did to him, and it makes me yelp and jump.

“S-sorry!” Snow gasps, falling back from me. “Got carried away.”

(Merciful Morgana, I wish I had a recording of this.)

“I’ve never seen you so enthusiastic for an exam,” I say. My voice is wobbly and unsteady, like the rest of me.

Snow clears his throat and gets to his feet. He uses the neck of his tee-shirt to rub at his mouth as I grip the dildo and pass it back to him. Handing Snow a lubed-up sex toy is far from the most intimate thing we’ve done, yet when our fingers brush, a rush of warmth spreads through my core—I shiver. I have to look away.

“Part two, then?” Snow asks, sounding nearly as wavering as I do.

“Yeah,” I breathe, and Snow doesn’t give the slightest hesitation this time. The second I agree, he’s spreading my cheek with one hand and nudging the cold, wet head of the toy against my swollen rim with the other. “Oh Crowley, oh _yes_—”

“_Fuck, Baz_,” Snow hisses, and that’s nearly enough to make me come. I’ve always been lustful for Simon Snow saying my name like a curse; having him do that while splitting me apart with pleasure is nearly too much to bear.

I use all my restraint to keep myself from rutting onto the toy and coming immediately—there’s no way I’m capable of holding back my noises fully as well. I _groan_ as he fills me more and more, and I _whimper_ when he bottoms out. And then, when he doesn’t begin fucking me right away, I full on _whine_ for it.

“Ready?” Snow growls.

‘_Yes!’_ I want to scream. _‘Take me!’_

Instead, I pant: “This is _your_ assessment. You tell me—_ahn!_” I feel the toy drag out some, then slam back in. My knees nearly buckle.

“I think you’re ready.” Snow does it again, dragging it out further this time before making me see stars.

Great snakes, what I wouldn’t give to have the cock in me actually belong to Simon. I want to feel the pulse of him against my walls, feel the press of his hips against my arse as he shoves in every last inch, feel the slap of his balls as he thrusts over and over—

I take immeasurable satisfaction in imagining that it really _is_ his cock filling me up. It’s not difficult—he’s right behind me, radiating heat, groaning with each thrust as if in sympathy. It’s my most realistic fantasy yet. I squeeze at the toy, making it harder for him to draw it out of me, and I pretend I’m milking Snow for all he’s worth.

I’m collapsed over the desk even more now, arms folded, cheek pressed against them, fingers scrabbling for whatever purchase I can find as Snow fucks me closer and closer to madness. (Really, I’m already mad for allowing any of this to happen—)

He’s not too rough with me, though I feel like I’m crumbling all the same. I was expecting to be reamed within an inch of my life (less of a concern when you’re undead, I suppose). Snow is thorough and, yes, ruthless, but his pace and intensity are no more wild than anything I did to myself in his presence. He’s clumsy and oafish, in true fashion, while still being so _thoughtful_ about the whole thing.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Snow has always been exceedingly good at swordplay; phallic imagery and displays of masculine bravado aside, this isn’t all that different, is it? Snow was given lessons in how to wield a toolset in the precise mannerisms required to draw out a victory from his opponent.

I’ve never been so thrilled to be bested by him in battle.

I press my chest into the desk and spread myself further, moaning openly for him, letting him know _exactly_ how pleased I am with his conquest. Snow releases dark rumbles in response. I can only hope the noises I’m making are affecting him half as much as his are affecting me.

Snow’s pace slows as I hear rustling and cursing. My curiosity gets the better of me—when I glance over my shoulder at him, I see Snow fumbling to pull himself through his flies with one hand. My mouth goes dry.

Unable to complete the task one-handed, Snow releases the dildo to make better work of it. I squawk gracelessly as the toy nearly ejects itself from me once Snow’s no longer holding it in place.

“For Crowley’s sake, Snow—!” I reach back in time to keep the dildo where it belongs.

“Sorry!” Snow blusters.

“You can’t just let go of the cursed thing!”

“Sorry, sorry! I was just—ah....” He’s all red-faced, caught in the act. “I didn’t know.”

“Obviously,” I huff. Because that’s easier than addressing the fact that Simon Snow is standing right behind me, hands wrapped around his exposed prick.

We both just…stare—me, at Snow’s erection; Snow, at my reaction. And to add to my horror, we both gulp at the same time.

“Do you—” I clear my throat. “Do you often take out your prick in the middle of exams, Snow?”

“_Fuck off, Baz_,” Snow snarls. As if I didn’t have enough trouble staving off an erection whenever he sounds like that, now I’ll never be able to elicit such a reaction without remembering this exact moment. And judging by the wild glint in his eye, I think that’s exactly what he wants.

I lick my lips slowly—Snow watches with undisguised interest. “I believe that ball is in your court,” I say.

Snow emits a short, strangled laugh, then removes one hand from his cock to grasp the toy along with me. “Right, got it,” he assures. “Won’t let go again.” (If only—)

“Good,” I purr, releasing the toy and gripping my desk anew. I try to look over my shoulder more, get a better view of his prick. “I’d hate to deduct more points.”

“I’m sure you would.” Snow gives the toy an experimental push—I moan. It’s good, but it’s also getting a bit rough and dry— “Let’s get you some more lube,” Snow says. I nearly sob with how considerate he is.

Snow releases himself, leaving his erection on full display for me. Forget the dryness of my throat—now my mouth is pooling with saliva. I’m not well-versed in the potential variety of sexual organs, but I’m fairly certain Snow’s penis is similar to his eyes: beautiful yet average. It’s a relief. And I’m no less aching with the desire to take him into my mouth. (I don’t even know if I _can_—given the fangs and all.)

“B…Baz?”

Snow’s hesitant voice breaks me from my stupor. I blink at him. He’s staring at me with a screwed up expression, face impossibly red. He’s been holding out his hand to me expectantly, it seems.

“What?” I blurt.

“Lube?” he tries. “Could you, um?”

“_Oh_.” I try not to let on how excruciatingly embarrassed I am. I pour a generous amount of lube into Snow’s palm. (I take solace in the fact that his hands are shaking as much as mine are.) “There you are.”

“Thanks,” Snow says.

We’re both clearly doing our best to sound normal, like I’m letting him borrow a pencil, not providing lubrication so that he can better ram my prostate.

I settle my cheek on my folded arms again, though I’m curved to the side now (rather uncomfortably) so that I have a better view of what’s happening around back. I can’t see when Snow swipes his slick hand along the dildo, but—_snakes alive—_it feels magnificent. I _can_ see when Snow wraps that same hand around himself, smearing his erection with the remaining lube. I moan harder at that than when he was stroking the toy.

Snow’s brazen enough to smirk at me. He shifts to the side more, allowing me an unobstructed view of his hand sweeping wetly along his cock. Which also means he has full view of my face. I don’t look away in shame this time. I let him see my pinched, flushed expression as he begins pushing the toy back inside me, and I relish in the sight of his own expression of pleasure as he gives himself a long tug.

I’m back to gasping and mewling immediately. Snow’s finding a wonderful rhythm with the fake cock again. A thrill runs through me when I realize he’s pleasuring himself to the same beat.

Is it too much to dream that Snow’s imagining the same thing I am? I don’t care how _‘confused’_ he thinks he is—no straight man would plough another bloke with a dildo, and especially not in time with his own feverish wanking (he’s pushing his hips into his fist and everything), and _most assuredly_ not while maintaining lusty eye contact with said bloke.

‘_Take what you want,’_ I’m yearning to say. _‘Use me. Please, please, please—’_

I can’t bring myself to be so unabashed with my desperation. There’s no need, anyway—I’m precariously close to orgasm already. I’ve been teased and pleasured for far too long, and seeing the intricacies of Simon’s masturbation tactics is the final straw. My cock and bollocks are throbbing and tight, fit to explode. I don’t even have to rub myself through my jockstrap, but I shove a hand down between my legs anyway, too greedy to deny myself the friction.

“Oh, fuck, Baz— fuck— so, _God_, you're so— _Fuck_—!” Snow’s vocalizations are increasingly breathy and daft, and I hate that I find it as hot as I do. He picks up the pace for both of us. The head of his cock is flushed deep and shining with lube and precome. He’s close, he’s got to be close—

I squeeze myself through the wet fabric of my strap and clamp my other hand over my mouth before he sees my fangs pop.

I’m wordlessly begging him for release with every part of me—my fluttering moans, the rocking of my hips, my watery and unwavering gaze. _Aleister Crowley_, he gives it all to me in spades.

Simon fucks me relentlessly, until my eyes are rolling back and my legs are trembling—until I’m crying out and shuddering and coming roughly into the snug confines of my jockstrap. And then he keeps going, slower but no less determined. He shoves it into me through each wave of my orgasm, until he’s eked out every last drop of my pleasure, until my rapturous moans devolve into blubbering whimpers. And then he still keeps going, much more gently but no less deep.

I’m whining and quaking and panting hard into my hand. My knees have given out—I’m only held up by my weak upper body and the dildo Simon’s still torturing me with. Each pump makes my worn-out cock twitch with the futile desire for _more_.

And all the while, he’s growling for me. Low, breathy nonsense. “Yeah, Baz. Fuck. Fuck yeah. That’s it. That’s it, Baz, there you go. Good. Fuck. Look at you. Good, so good, Baz. Good boy. That’s it.”

I watch through hazy, tearful eyes as Simon stares at his ministrations of the toy with feverish focus. He’s using the sight of me to get off—I moan with exhausted delight.

“Come for me, Snow,” I purr before I can think better of it.

It could be a coincidence, but it’s just as I say it that Simon snaps his teeth in a wanton growl, body seizing up with the harsh cresting of his orgasm.

I hum, low and appreciative, as I watch Simon tug out each wave of come. It splatters on the floor and coats his hand. (_I want it—_) It’s only then, as his shivering subsides, that he finally stops moving the dildo in me.

So this is what being used by Simon Snow feels like: getting fucked senseless while he praises you and strokes himself to completion.

Merlin and Morgana....

This is dangerous.

Reckless.

Torture.

Snow withdraws the toy from me. I drum up what minimal strength I have to stand up and collect it from him.

“Um,” Snow warbles.

“What?” I snap. I focus on spelling our extensive mess into the bin.

“Uh. Well. Uh.”

Snow seems more befuddled than usual. I shoot him an icy glance—he’s still not tucked himself back into his pants. He’s just staring at me. I raise my eyebrow at his softening member with as much casual derision as I can manage. (It’s not much.) He flusters and scrambles to reclaim some decency.

“Uh, um—!”

I groan and turn away, making for the en suite. I feel disgusting. (I can hardly walk.) “Spit it out, Snow.”

“D-do I pass?”

Seven hells.

“Flying colours,” I announce flatly. “Congratulations! Won’t the Mage be proud!”

Snow blusters at the sudden change in mood. I slam the bathroom door behind me, but it does nothing to block the heavy stench of his bubbling magic. Good, that will mask the scent of our misdeeds nicely.

I can’t allow this to ever happen again.


	4. Fourth Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Baz makes this amused humming sound, all soft and velvety. A shiver goes down my spine._   
_“What happened to not wanting anything inside?” he asks._   
_I peer between my fingers at him and scowl. “Changed my mind, didn’t I?”_   
_Baz grins. It’s slow and dangerous—my chest feels tight. “Need a lesson?”_   
_“Yeah,” I say quickly. His eyebrow quirks up. I swallow and drop my hands into my lap. “You haven’t taught me stretching yet. So. Yeah.”_
> 
> * * *
> 
> Simon starts to think it might be a little bit gay to want Baz's fingers inside him...but if Baz is volunteering another teachable moment, then who is he to complain?

SIMON

I've got to figure out how to make it happen again.

Whatever's happening between Baz and me, I mean.

Well. Nothing's really happening _between_ us, just…we kind of keep getting off around each other.

Okay. Maybe it's more than that.

I don't know _what_ it is. I don't know what's going on.

All I know is I want _more_.

It’s been over a week since I last touched him—nine days. That’s a weird thing to fixate on, innit? The last time I touched him?

I’ve barely even seen Baz since then. He’s still in bed when I leave for breakfast, and he comes in from the Catacombs well past midnight. Other than seeing him in the dining hall and in class, he’s like a ghost.

I’ve not been following him. I wanted to…to give him some space. Give me some space, too.

Don’t know what to _do_ with the space, though.

My thoughts jump back to Baz whenever I’m not occupied (and even then). I spend as much time as possible with Penny—the second I’m alone in our room, I get to stewing. Pacing and hacking at the air with my sword and trying my damnedest to get Baz off my mind.

I can’t help it. Baz is…well, he’s disgustingly fit, isn’t he? He’s all graceful limbs and lean muscles, with perfect hair and long lashes and smoky eyes that make my spine tingle. And he’s got that regal brow and nose that make me want to punch him again, and he’s got those pouty lips that make me want to—

Merlin.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I’m seeing spots. Doesn’t do much to rid me of all these mental images, though.

It’s well after dinner, and I’m alone in our room, so I'm just sat on my bed and thinking about Baz. Of course. It’s not a newproblem. My thoughts never used to be like _this_, though. Never used to be about his pale skin under my hands and the cut of his hips and the breathy way he sounds when he begs _'more, Snow'_—

It’s been nine days, and we haven’t spoken, and rather than using the time to forget about it, I’m thinking about him more and more.

I’m panicking. A bit. It’s…not that bad. Because a lot of these thoughts _aren’t_ that new, not really. Like the wanting to touch his hair or smell him up close. Like how much it fucking thrills me to know the crook in his nose is there because of _me_.

I want to leave more marks on him.

I want so much more than what he’s given me.

I think I'm screwed.

I'm not exactly sure how it happened...but at some point, while I was tongue deep in Baz's arse, it all started to make sense. The truth, I mean. About all of this, about why I'm doing all of this.

I’m attracted to Baz Pitch.

And that. Well. That’s right terrifying.

It’s been nine days (and four hours), and I’m getting more and more desperate. I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve never thought about _anyone_ this way, forget another guy. My thoughts about Aggie were never like this. Not even close.

Does that make me gay?

I’d _know_ if I was gay, wouldn’t I?

I think it’s just a Baz thing. An extension of wanting to see him all undone.

We haven’t fought as much lately. I’m just spoiling for an altercation with him, that’s all. I thought about picking a fight, so I could get close. But then I started to worry I might get a boner, and I don’t want anyone else to see that happen—it’s not like we can fight in the privacy of our room.

I just. I want. I don’t know. I just _want_ him.

I’d been hoping doing some homework and taking a shower would help me calm down—it’s done a decent job the other nights. No such luck tonight. I’m at my wits end.

I can’t stop thinking about Baz’s bum. About the plug, about watching him use the dildo, about getting to do it to him myself. About the idea of him stretching himself with his long violin fingers pressing into his body—about what that must look like.

Good, I bet. He makes everything look_ so fucking good_.

He makes it look so good, I’m well tempted to try it myself.

I mean. It must be pleasurable, if he can get off on that alone. The external stuff he did to me was brilliant—what must it feel like to have him do some of that internal stuff? How good would it feel for those fingers and that tongue to be _in_ me?

There’s an ache in my crotch just thinking about it—an ache in somewhere deep I’ve never felt before.

_I want something inside me._

Can’t very well just walk up to Baz and ask for it though, can I? _‘Hey, mate, fancy shoving your fingers up my arse?’_ Baz would set me on fire. (I’d probably set _myself_ on fire.)

I could do it solo. Maybe once I satisfy my curiosity, some of my thoughts about Baz will die down. I should try. I get the basics well enough (I think). Start slow, start small, use lots of lube.

Lube. Fuck.

I’ve not got any lube. I usually make do with precome and spit—sometimes lotion if I’ve got any. Or Baz’s soap, if I’m in the shower. Not that I’d ever tell Baz that.

Baz…!

_Baz_ has lube!

I push myself off my bed and stare at his. He’s got that box under there.... So long as I put everything back just the way it was, he’ll never know, right? (I don’t think he has the box charmed—didn’t see him de-spelling it when he had me open it last week.)

I kneel down next to his bed, my heart hammering.

It’s probably fine to do this. It’s not like I’m borrowing one of his toys.

I gulp and peer under his bed to search out the box.

It’s not there!

He changed the hiding spot? That prick!

I do a thorough sweep under the bed with my arm to make sure he didn’t spell it invisible. Nothing. Then, I check his night table. Doubt he usually keeps stuff there—not private enough—but he did have supplies there the one time.... Nothing.

I aggressively chew on a hangnail and scowl at his side of the room.

Where could it be? Desk? Wardrobe? Should I cast a finding spell? Or just tear the room apart?

Casting, especially when I’m already a bit worked up, tends to make a real mess of things. But…going through it all by hand could be the same outcome.

Spells are faster.

I grab my wand and point to Baz’s side of the room, taking a deep breath. I focus my mind on the details of Baz’s lube bottle (a weird thing to focus on). Right then....

**"Come out, come out, wherever you are!”**

The doors of Baz’s wardrobe begin rattling. I hold my breath and keep my wand pointed. _That’s it, that’s it—! Come on!_

The wardrobe’s doors fly open—and because it’s just my luck, the door to our _room_ opens at the same time, startling the hell out of me. I whip my head over to see Baz striding in—

Just as the box of Baz’s sex stuff comes flying out of the wardrobe to clonk me right in the side of the face.

“_Jesus bloody fuck_—!” I bark. My wand (and the box) clatter to the floor as I grip my head.

“What in the name of magic…,” I hear Baz mutter under his breath. He slams the door to our room shut—for a second, I think he left. I’m too blinkered with pain to let go of my head and check.

I’m seething and rubbing my assaulted cheekbone, but I can still hear his footsteps—not gone then—as he heads for his wardrobe to close those doors, too.

“What idiocy are you up to this time, Snow?”

“_Ughhhh_,” is all I reply with.

“Did you cast a finding spell on my dildo?” he baulks. He sounds ready to laugh—I’m surprised he’s taking it so well.

“No!” I groan. I slowly release my face, confident I don’t need to hold it together. No blood. Smarts like hell, though. “I was— _Ugh_.”

Baz snorts. (Bastard.) “If you wanted to be cockslapped that badly, there are other means.”

My jaw drops. “Wh— N— I—_hgkk_—”

The smarmy prick, he tilts back his head and laughs. “Crowley, listen to you!”

I growl and give the foot of his bed a kick. “Piss off! I just wanted some lube!”

Baz snerks and gives me a cruel, teasing look that makes my insides twist up. “I’m furious you’re rifling through my things,” he says, “but I’ll go easy on you because your predicament is so hilariously pathetic.”

“Thanks a lot,” I grunt at him.

“What entertainment!” Baz snickers. “The Chosen One gets a self-inflicted black eye from his nemesis’ dildo.”

I kick his bed again, more feebly this time. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” I slump over to my own bed and flop down face-first on it.

Baz scoops up the box, placing its scattered contents back inside. He sets it on his desk and closes it, and as I’m wondering how I’m ever going to live this down, I realize the lube bottle is still in his hand, not put away.

I feel my pulse pick up just from the sight. (Pathetic, indeed.) Baz stares at me from across the room, eyebrow arched, lip faintly curled in a smirk, holding the bottle up in his long fingers.

“Well?” he says.

I gulp. “W-well what?”

“You wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Um.” I push myself up into a sitting position. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Don’t tell me you have none of your own, Snow.” Baz’s eyes don’t leave mine. He’s rubbing his thumb along the flip-top in slow circles.

“N-no. I don’t....”

Baz sighs. “And so now that you used lube last time, you’ve realized the joys of not chafing your dick off?”

I yank at my hair. I have to look away from him—can’t stand to see his eyes _or_ the way he’s touching the bottle. “That part’s fine,” I say. “I, uh. Yeah. I get by just fine.”

“Oh…?” Baz slowly angles his head back to stare down his nose at me. I keep my gaze focused to somewhere on his desk, past his hip. (His _hip_—)

“I wanted to— to, um—” My face is absolutely burning.

“_Crowley_,” Baz emits—it almost sounds like a giggle. “You wanted to bugger yourself?”

“You are _the worst_,” I moan. I hide my head in my hands again—at least it’s from embarrassment rather than injury this time. (Though I guess my pride is injured.)(What a mess.)

Baz makes this amused humming sound, all soft and velvety. A shiver goes down my spine.

“What happened to not wanting anything inside?” he asks.

I peer between my fingers at him and scowl. “Changed my mind, didn’t I?”

Baz grins. It’s slow and dangerous—my chest feels tight. “Need a lesson?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly. His eyebrow quirks up. I swallow and drop my hands into my lap. “You haven’t taught me stretching yet. So. Yeah.”

I can see Baz’s jaw working from across the room—was he not serious? Then, he takes a breath and pushes himself away from his desk, clearing his throat.

“Right. Go clean up,” he says.

I’m way too eager when I jump up and run off to the loo, but I can’t help it. I’ve been yearning to touch him for nine days, and it’s been well over a month since _he_ touched _me_. I’m clenching up just thinking about it. I wonder if he’ll use his tongue again....

I’m not all that sure what ‘cleaning up’ is supposed to entail when someone’s about to stick something up your arse. I should have asked. For now, I focus on getting all the outside parts as clean as possible, which isn’t hard since I showered just before—Baz will probably spell me again, anyway.

Merlin, I can’t believe this is happening—

I’m more than half-hard by the time I’m ready to leave the bathroom. That’s when I realize didn’t bring in my jockstrap. I chew the cuticle of my thumb nervously.

Baz already saw my prick last time. So…it’s probably fine, right?

He stared at it.

A lot, actually.

Then it hits me: I think Baz is attracted to me, too.

I mean. He has to be, yeah? If he watched me wank like that? I mean. He seemed into it. Into _me_. He said my name, even. Well, my last name. Still. I mean. It’s not like he was imagining some _other_ bloke, right?

Fuck. Now I’m extra nervous.

Okay. Okay, don’t make it—_Merlin_—don’t make it weird! Weirder than it has to be!

So, I’m maybe—a little bit—gay. For Baz. That’s fine.

And he’s maybe—a little bit—gay for me. (Or gay overall.)(I’ve no idea.)

The details don’t matter. Baz is out there, willing and waiting to get me off with his fingers. That’s the important part.

It’s _probably_ not a plot.

I take a deep breath and stand up taller.

Right. Yeah.

Let’s do this.

I exit the bathroom as confidently as I can. All I’ve got on is my pyjama top (a worn-out Watford lacrosse tee). Baz looks up from where he’s sat on his bed—is he clipping his nails? _now_?—and lifts both eyebrows when he sees me.

I cough nervously. “Y-your bed or mine?”

Baz looks properly gobsmacked. He’s staring at my cock with that same dark, wide-eyed gaze as last time. His lips are hanging open, and I think he’s blushing. It’s hard to tell on him unless he’s _really_ blushing. Like when he’s getting drilled. Fuck—my cock’s jumping from the thought. Baz’s eyebrows fly up higher.

“Baz?”

He startles at that. Baz quickly looks away, leaping up from his bed and gesturing at it for me. He huddles over the bin and finishes clipping his nails while I get comfortable on my back on the bed.

_Baz’s_ bed. Which smells like him. I can’t believe I’m here—again.

“Wait—back or stomach?” I ask.

“That’s fine,” Baz croaks, then clears his throat. After setting down the nail clipper, he goes to the en suite to wash his hands.

This is really happening.

I stare at the ceiling and focus on how different the view is from Baz’s bed. That’s a nice, normal thought. (I think.)

Baz is back in short order. He plucks up my pillow from my bed, folding it in half. “Lift your hips,” he instructs. I plant my feet on the mattress and lift, then he tucks the pillow under me, propping up my arse. I tug up my shirt a bit, so I don’t make a mess on it.

This is _really happening_.

Baz settles in at my feet. His eyes have barely left my crotch—it’s making me painfully hard. He looks ready to devour me.

Fuck. I hope he does.

I try to remind myself that Baz is a vampire. Really hard to care right now, even with him all predatory. If anything…it makes me hotter. (It shouldn’t. I know that. But—)

I let my knees fall open wide. Baz licks his lips.

“So, um…how does this…_work_…?” My voice is pitchy—I frown.

“Well, for starters…,” Baz begins, dropping his wand from up his sleeve. He casts a quick **clean as a whistle **on me, then sets his wand aside. My pulse kicks up in anticipation. (Can he sense that?) “Now we get you relaxed.”

“I am relaxed,” I say. (I’m not.)

Baz finally flicks his eyes up to mine—he’s smirking. “Don’t try to act tough. You look ready to leap out of your skin, and your magic’s an olfactory hazard.”

I frown more. He’s right. I hate when he’s right. “J-just shut up and get on with it.”

“Are you always this bossy when someone’s doing you a favour, Snow?” Baz sounds like he’s purring rather than griping. I spread my legs wider without meaning to.

“Do…do me more favours, and maybe you’ll find out.”

Baz’s eyebrow shoots up—I hold his gaze as best as I can, despite the way my face is burning. He huffs. I’m not sure if it’s a scoff or a laugh, which is pretty typical. I figure it doesn’t matter, because then he’s shifting to lie down at the foot of the bed, his face so close to my cock, and his hands are suddenly on my arse, spreading me.

“Ready, then?” Baz’s breath washes over me, and my eyes nearly roll back from just that much.

I gulp and tip my chin up, closing my eyes. I can’t look—Baz’s shark-grey eyes so close to my erection are too—too _much_. “Y-yeah.”

“Relax,” he hisses near my thigh. I jerk my hips involuntarily at the sensation—I think I bump him in the nose with my bollocks.

Baz growls. He grabs the back of my thighs and shoves until they’re folded to my chest. He keeps his hands there, holding me still, holding me exactly where he wants me. _Great snakes—_

Just as I think I’m about to go mad with anticipation, with the teasing of his cool breath against all my parts, Baz _finally_ makes contact with his mouth. I release a long groan as Baz’s plush lips lay open-mouthed kisses along the soft spot between my balls and arse. It feels weird and _good_ and not enough, all at the same time. I jerk my hips again in desperation, which just makes Baz’s grip on the backs of my thighs get tighter.

“Impatient,” he snarls breathily, right over my hole.

“_Fuck_—”

He gives it to me, then: the warm, swirling wetness of his tongue pressed up against my arsehole. I yelp and buck at the strangeness of it. And—_Merlin almighty_—it’s even better than I remembered.

“Yeah…_yeah_, Baz—” I grasp at the sheets. I’m panting already.

His technique is different this time. Baz is slower and less crazed, but no less into it, if the low grunts he’s making against me mean what I think they do. I can’t resist—I open my eyes and lift my head to look. It’s a dizzying sight. Baz’s eyes are closed and his brow is furrowed in concentration, like I’m some homework assignment he’s trying to figure out—except now he’s thoughtfully sucking on _me_, and not his fangs. I’m so fucking grateful.

It’s wild—it’s unthinkable—that Baz Pitch has got his face between my legs. (Again!) I moan noisily.

Baz’s assault is calm and deliberate. He laps and kisses and suckles at me, teasing my hole relentlessly, like we’ve got all the time in the world. I don’t know how he does it, but he’s got me wound up and relaxing all at the same time. I’m a trembling puddle beneath him.

_I could come from this_, I think. But I don’t want to. Not yet. I’m dribbling precome onto my stomach as my whole body pulses with hunger. I need more. I’m not deterred by Baz’s crushing hold—I try to roll my hips up into the sensations._ I need more_. I’m aching all over for Baz’s perfect lips and tongue.

“Baz…come on— _Hngh_—! More—”

A long tremor rips through me when Baz snaps his eyes open—forget his hands, that menacing look alone pins me to the bed. _Fuck_. Does he have any idea of the effect he has on me? (He must.)

Still, I’m scrappy, and no matter how delicious it is to have Baz _try_ to keep me obedient, I’m not about to let him _win_.

“Come on, _come on…_,” I whine. I bite my lip and push my hips at him in slow thrusts. “Inside....”

I shiver as Baz latches his lips to me and sends a growl right through my core. He sucks hard, then pops off with a wet sound, and I whine even louder. And then he threatens “make you regret it” into my thigh, which would already be hot enough to make my cock jump, but when he follows it up with a quick nip to my taint and a long drag of his tongue under the fold of my bollocks, I nearly lose my mind. A whole mess of strangled sounds falls out of me.

_My God_—

Baz releases me, instead sliding his hands down my legs until he’s got handfuls of my arse. My thighs throb where he restrained me—I probably shouldn’t be so turned on by the promising ache of forming bruises. (I wonder if I can bruise _him_—)

Baz’s thumbs pull me apart, distracting me from those thoughts. My breath hitches. _Is this it?_ I clench despite myself.

His eyes are wild as he just stares for an uncomfortably long beat. I clench again, and Baz makes this dark sound that’s got to be involuntary before bringing his mouth back to me.

“_Ooohhh_,” I groan. My head snaps back as Baz sinks his tongue inside. I didn’t think you could _do_ that—!

I don’t think he can get his tongue in very far, but it’s hard to tell. Fuck, it’s hard to _think_— Hard to even _breathe_. It doesn’t matter how much he’s able to get in, it feels perfect. A hot, slippery pressure, entering me shallowly over and over. I gasp and shudder.

Forget arguing and insults. This—_this_ is the way Baz should always take me apart with his tongue.

Baz is unhurried and ruthless. He spears me a few more times, then pulls back. Stares at the view as he spreads me more with his thumbs. Then he moans and dives back in. I choke out a wordless plea—

And then he’s pulling back again. Pushing his thumb against my spit-slicked hole, pushing, _pushing_— I twitch under him—_around_ him!—as he hooks his thumb in just a little, just barely breaching me—

_Yes! Please—!_ That place inside of me is aching so bad.

“Buh…Baz…!” I gulp at air. “I need…deeper…!”

“Oh, Snow,” Baz purrs. He nuzzles up under my balls, and I think I might die. “Don’t worry.” He rocks his thumb in me in a steady, barely-there rhythm that tugs at my hole in the strangest, most thrilling way. “You’ll get it deep.” He swirls his tongue over the stretch of my swollen rim. “You’ll get more than you can bear.”

The way Baz’s promises sound like threats has me quivering hard. I grab at my own cheeks and spread myself wider for him.

“Do it,” I beg. “Show me.”

Baz torments my taint with his tongue one last time before sitting up and removing his thumb from me. I’m left cold and empty, practically shimmering with desperation. (I don’t think I’ll go off—)(I’m too stupid with lust to _care_—)

My chest is heaving, my legs are getting tired, my stomach’s already a sticky mess, and I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life. _Baz_—I want _Baz_, I want—

Baz’s eyes are fiery, locked to mine. He’s picking up the lube and pouring it into his hand, slicking up his fingers without looking, without ever tearing his gaze from me. His brow is down, he’s all squinty, like he’s still trying to puzzle me out. It feels like actual torture, lying here spread and scrutinized and pathetically eager for him to attack.

(I think I’m _always_ pathetically eager for him to attack—)

“_Ba-az_,” I whinge. I quirk my hips, impatient. “Hurry.”

Baz’s lips twist up into a devilish smirk. “I’m just revelling in the moment, Snow,” he drawls. “Burning it into my memory.” Fuck, I hope so.

He leans over me partially, making my breath catch. He braces himself on one arm near my ribs, his hair falling down in a way that gets me light-headed. His other hand, the wet one, glides over where I’m holding myself open.

“Cold,” I complain. Baz’s hands are so cold to start with—he’s not got enough body heat to warm up the lube. Honestly though, it’s a relief. Tempers my urgency a bit. That and the increasing anxiety as I realize what’s actually about to happen.

I mean. I’ve been begging for it, so of course I _know_ what’s about to happen, and we’ve been leading up to it this whole time—but! But now it’s _actually really seriously happening_—!

“Relax,” Baz murmurs. Can he tell I’m nervous?

I swallow tightly, nodding. I close my eyes and try to focus on the good parts of the sensations. Baz is pressing.... His hand is curled down over me, palm and fingers cupping my taint and arse, slippery and cool. I feel the light pressure of his middle finger circling my hole, slicking me more, coaxing me to let him in. And then there’s more pressure—his finger pad, pushing, _entering_, pushing _more_—

I moan and gasp and release myself to grip the sheets again. It’s weird, intrusive— I squirm, but I don’t know if I’m trying to move towards him or away.

Baz releases a small huff as he finally seats his whole finger inside me. He just holds it there. Suddenly, it’s too nerve-racking to not be able to see him—I open my eyes, a whimper falling out of me when I realize he’s been watching my face. I’ve got no idea what kind of expression I’m making right now. All of me feels tight and flushed and confused.

Baz’s expression is tight and flushed, too. I’m surprised he’s blushing—is he enjoying this? I squeeze on his finger, which makes him huff again, jaw tensing. I think it feels good for him. I relax some and give my hips a slow roll up into his hand. Baz’s eyes flash. His breath comes out rougher now, and that’s when my nerves fully melt away.

He must be thinking about good this would feel on his cock, rather than his finger. He must be, right? I know that’s all I could think about last time, and that was only from fucking him with a dildo—all I had to go on was the resistance and drag of each push and pull. Actually having a part of myself in him would’ve made me explode a lot faster.

“You just,” I pant, “going to leave it there…?”

Baz drags his tongue along his bottom lip. (Thank magic for that tongue—) “I’m letting you adjust to the sensation,” he says. His voice is low, taut. I squeeze on his finger again, which makes his voice higher, tauter when he next speaks: “But since you’re such a slag for it, I’ll cease being so considerate.”

“G-good—_ahn!_” I toss my head to the side as Baz gives one long thrust. “Because I’d hate,”—another thrust—“to start thinking,”—a third—“that you’re, _hhnngh_, g-growing,”—a fourth, harder—“_ah!—_s-soft for me, Baz.”

Baz’s drawn out snarl makes my whole body light up as the sound races along my spine. He sounds so good. Fuck, he _feels_ so good—! It’s not uncomfortable any more. His finger is moving fast, but it’s so wet and so purposeful, not half as cruel as his expression.

“_Nnghh_…fuck…yeah, Baz....”

“Ah, is the Chosen One done complaining now?” Baz leans over me further with a dark grin. I squirm—he’s over me and _in_ me, and his gaze hasn’t left mine.

“Not yet....” I try to sound teasing, but my voice is an unsteady mess. I pull my shirt up higher. “Not till I’m satisfied.”

Baz’s eyes fall shut as he moans. Oh Merlin, oh fuck— He’s so hot—how did it take me so long to realize he’s so hot?

I can’t lament lost time too much because once Baz recovers, he attacks me more harshly. His pumps turn shallow, but he starts curling his finger now, pushing up at my walls. A yell rips out of me at the new strangeness. The next thing I know, I’m scrambling, dropping my legs down to plant my feet into the bed so that I can rut into the sensation.

“There you go,” Baz rumbles in that lush way he has, where everything he says sounds like trouble. “That’s the spot.”

‘_Yeah,’_ I try to say, but all that comes out is a garbled whine. _‘That’s the spot, all right.’_

My body’s sparking (not _literally_). I’ve never felt like this. It’s so similar to the hazy way I fall apart when I’m about to go off, and nothing like it at the same time. I feel boneless, bodiless, all of me concentrated to the electric pressure between my legs, the pulse and shimmer of it.

“Oh. Oh, Merlin. Oh, fuck. Baz. God. Yeah. Yeah, Baz. God, fuck, I can’t— Baz!”

I’m tossing my head and closing my eyes and panting and babbling and opening my eyes and humping into his hand. I’m frantic. I’m falling apart, a live wire, with Baz expertly peeling back the sheath, exposing me, fraying me.

“Yes, Snow,” I can hear him murmuring when I’m too busy gasping to cry out. “That’s it. There you go. Beautiful, Snow. So desperate. Coming apart for me.”

When I’m coherent enough to open my eyes, I can see him still watching me, still leaning, eyes roving along my face and chest and exposed stomach. All I can see and feel and smell is _Baz_—

I tear my gaze away from his blown eyes to stare down at where we’re joined. The muscles in his forearm are working hard as he rends me to pieces. My cock and balls are flushed so dark, they’re nearly purple.

“Gonna die,” I wail.

A laugh rolls out of Baz, stroking my senses. “Likely not.”

And then, with sudden panic, I wail, “gonna _pee_—”

“Also unlikely,” Baz says, but he relents his assault anyway, thank snakes.

I whimper and collapse back, only then realizing how tightly wound all my muscles were. I’m drenched in sweat and panting hard. All of me feels fuzzy, untethered—_starving_.

Baz has leaned back and is only delivering slow, cautious thrusts now. Once I no longer feel like I’m about to blackout, I look down between us again—not at myself this time, though. I look at Baz, at where he’s perched between my legs, at how much his trousers are straining around his erection.

I was a coward that first time. I ran, rather than letting him take it out and finish too. I won’t be a coward again.

“Your trousers look uncomfortable,” I say. My voice is hoarse.

“…Well spotted,” Baz replies.

“You should, um.” I flick my eyes back to his—he’s squinting at me again. “You should open them. Take your prick out, get off with me.”

Baz’s mouth forms a grim line, and I swear he’s blushing harder. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Yeah,” I grunt. “I’m aware that’s well gay.”

“You said it, not me.” Baz’s finger curls in me again for one good stroke. I shudder hard.

“Well,” I gasp, “at least I know what you’re up to, like this.”

Baz arcs his perfect eyebrow. “Is this what you think enemies do to keep an eye on each other, Snow?”

“It’s working, innit?” I press my hands and feet flat to his bed and give my hips a long roll as I squeeze on his finger. “Got you right where I want you.”

“Yes,” Baz chokes out, “masterfully manipulated.”

“Come on.” I shift, letting my legs fall open in a more comfortable way. I bring a hand up to my aching erection and squeeze the base—Baz’s eyes stalk my movements. He looks ready to pounce. _That’s it_— “Don’t be stubborn, Baz. Wank with me.” I give myself a small tug, groaning with it. Baz’s nostrils flare. “And stick another finger in, yeah? You’re supposed to be teaching me how to stretch.”

“You’re a menace,” Baz growls. “A pushy, gluttonous nightmare.”

“Mmnn.” I sigh and squirm, tugging on my lip with my teeth. “You’ve yet to make me regret it.”

I’m not sure if that was exactly the right thing or the wrong thing to say. Baz suddenly straightens up, a wicked composure coming over him. He tugs his finger out of me, causing me to moan pitifully, while staring down his nose with a cold glare that gives me goosebumps. I just lie there, empty and aching and at his mercy—all I can do is watch his hands smoothly undo his belt, then his button and flies, and then reach in to drag his cock out to freedom.

I swallow, my throat suddenly real dry and tight.

Can a dick be elegant? Because that’s what Baz’s dick is. It’s long, graceful, nicely sculpted like the rest of him. His foreskin’s already pulled back, showing off the curves of his well-defined crown. It’s flushed dark purple, like a bruise—I wonder if it’s always like that, or if he’s as wrecked with arousal as I am. He’s definitely leaking a lot, glistening with it. I suck on my lip.

Baz’s eyes are fixed on me, heavy and frightening in all the ways I like. I can’t resist stroking myself when I see his cock, and I definitely can’t resist when he’s looking at me like _that_. I rarely get his undivided attention for this long—it’s doing horrible, amazing things to me. I need him to do horrible, amazing things to me _more_, with his fingers and his voice—

Those fingers of his are shaking as he plucks up the lube bottle. He stares me down and drizzles lube along his hand and cock. He strokes himself with the hand he’s been ruining me with, and once he’s satisfied with his own wetness, he brings that hand to me again—I release a breathy groan.

Baz wastes no time sinking his middle finger back where it belongs. I blurt out a “Merlin, yeah, _please_”, which makes his harsh mouth finally curl into a grin. I watch him start stroking his prick with his other hand, loose but fast—my eyes and head roll back when I realize it’s at the same rate he’s plunging into me.

“That’s right,” Baz coos. “It’s just what you want, isn’t it, Snow?”

I’m honestly fucking terrified by the idea of Baz putting his cock in me. I can barely handle one finger. Still…it’s agonizingly hot to know that’s what _he’s_ thinking. I want him to want it, even if I don’t want it myself. Or something. I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what any of this _means_.

What I do know is that Baz is prying me open with a second finger now, making strangled sounds rip through me. I wonder if he really does want me to regret it or if he just knows I can handle it, because he’s brutal this time, not giving me any adjustment period at all. Just splitting me apart with the thickness of it, thrusting and spreading me with scissoring motions as I moan and tremble around him.

I can hear my voice in my ears and can feel the scratch of it in my throat, but I have no idea what I’m saying. Nonsense, probably. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the sight of Baz’s drooling cock in his hand and his flexing forearms and the fall of his hair and the heave of his chest and the gorgeous twist of pleasure on his face.

He’s stroking that spot in me that makes me feel like a kernel about to pop. It’s not relentless this time—he varies the pressure there between long thrusts, and it’s the perfect kind of overwhelming. I think I’m sobbing. I hardly have to even stroke myself—just frantic little jerking motions along my shaft. I can’t even touch the head, I’m too pent up, over-sensitive. I’m keening and writhing and delirious with pleasure—

_Baz, Baz, Baz, Baz—!_

I explode, quaking, seeing stars, going supernova, the whole fucking thing. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It’s mind-shattering. I can’t breathe—I can only shiver and buck as my orgasm pulses through me, longer than I’ve ever felt it, while Baz keeps rocking into me again and again.

Just when the pleasure starts to warp from the good kind of too much to the bad kind, Baz’s movements let up. He coaxes me down.... I exhale a whine and let my eyes flutter back open as he withdraws his fingers.

Oh, fuck…

He’s so damn beautiful.

Baz’s face is flushed and lightly sheened with sweat. His lips are parted on an endless string of thready moans. He’s stroking himself faster now, tighter, and his hooded eyes are locked to my softening cock and the mess of come up my stomach and chest, even on my shirt. (I’ve never shot that far before.)(What in the name of magic did he _do_ to me?)

“Yeahhh, yeah, Baz, come on, do it,” I plead once I’ve got enough wits and breath to manage it. I see a shudder roll through him. “Come for me, Baz.”

That seems to get to him the same way it got to me last time. Next thing I know, Baz’s brow is drawn up like he’s in pain, and then he’s whimpering “_Snow_” before pressing the back of his messy hand to his mouth—and then it hits. His head falls back as he comes with a throaty cry into his fist. I run my gaze down him, following the long throb of pleasure that racks his body. I watch with hazy fascination as the tremors keep rocking him, Baz milking himself through all of it, until every last drop of come has splattered out. He gets it all over his hand and the sheets. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed that none of it lands on me. (Which would be more than just a _little_ gay.)

Merlin....

I’m still mindless, naked and leaking on Baz’s bed. All I can hear are my calming breaths and Baz’s heavier ones as he still works his way back down to earth.

It’s unbelievable. It’s fucking terrifying. It’s life-altering.

I close my eyes and relish in the moment while I can.

“**Clean as a whistle,”** I eventually hear Baz cast, followed by an **out, out damn spot**. His enunciation is lazy, but it seems to do the trick. Then I feel him shuffling about, tucking himself back into his clothes and standing up.

I’m not looking forward to this part—the part where he acts like a total prat again. I keep my eyes closed, wanting to enjoy it for just a little bit longer....

“Snow…?” Baz’s voice is soft. My heart squeezes.

“Yeah…?” I sound well wrecked.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just…just need a second.”

“Take your time,” Baz replies.

I don’t know how to deal with Baz Pitch being soft.

Fucked up thing, that. I’m more capable of dealing with him fingering me stupid than I am with hearing him be kind. But it’s not like I want him to be a _jerk_, either....

I wonder why.

I wonder what I want.

I wonder what the fuck we’re doing.


	5. Fifth Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I grin at Baz, sure to keep our eyes locked, even while he continues to tempt me with all variety of thrusts and sounds. “Is this a lesson in patience?”_   
_Baz’s expression shifts into a smirk too—a dark one that makes my balls tighten. I used to think that was a fear or anger response, but turns out it’s something so much more carnal than that._   
_“Sure, let’s call it that,” he drawls._
> 
> * * *
> 
> Simon's starting to get a clearer picture of things.... Baz realizes he's not cut out to be Simon's teacher.

BAZ

I have no idea what the fuck we’re doing.

I’m hiding in the en suite while Simon Snow lies on _my_ bed, collecting himself after I just....

I scrub my hands in the sink, even though they’re spelled clean. They’re shaking—all of me is shaking. I’m dazed. _Delirious_.

I just fingered Simon Snow and masturbated between his legs.

He _asked_ me to, no less.

I turn off the tap and grip the sink.

After the last time, I swore to myself I wouldn’t let this happen again. I did my damnedest to avoid him. Mercifully, he seemed to be avoiding me, as well. (Or not stalking me, at least. Which may as well be avoidance, given his proclivity for it.)

Yet the second I had the slightest opportunity, I succumbed. I could have tossed him the bottle and left him to figure things out on his own. But no—I fell victim to my own desires. _Again_.

I nearly fell victim to a few more. I nearly leaned down to kiss him. I wanted to feel his cries against my mouth. I wanted to lick his throat and taste his sweat. I wanted to press my face to his chest and listen to his heartbeat while we came.

I might have done it all, had he not been wearing his cross under that tee shirt. I think it was the only thing keeping me moderately coherent.

Perhaps I need to coat Snow in crosses in order to keep him safe from my insatiable hunger. Perhaps I could buy him pants with a cross pattern on them. (Would that work?)

I turn the tap back on and splash cold water onto my face.

Most agonizingly of all, I simply want to…to go back out there. Press my fingers into his curls and hold him all night. Have him hold me.

As if Snow and I could ever have such a moment of tenderness, post-coital or no.

I hope he’s all right. I was far from gentle with him. He seemed to love every minute of it....

There’s the faint sound of rustling from the room. Snow must finally be relocating to his own bed.

I hide a few minutes longer (ignoring the lump of his discarded pyjama bottoms on the bathroom floor), then finally brave going back into the room. Snow is indeed on his bed, barely under the sheets, back to me. He’s curled up into his usual tight ball. I focus on collecting my own pyjamas and most certainly do _not_ allow myself a moment of reverence to gaze upon him.

After I wash up more thoroughly and change, I crawl into my bed with my books. I should swap out the bedclothes, but it’s late, and Snow’s slow breaths signal that he’s sleeping—I don’t have the heart to wake him with the noise. Besides, I won’t be able to sleep anyway.

Exams are soon, and then the summer holidays. I only have to get through a few more weeks of proximity. Then, I can spend the summer hardening myself to him again (not like _that_). By the time eighth year begins, I’ll be cruel and collected once more.

That’s just the way it has to be.

I turn off the lights with a whispered spell, then I illuminate the tip of my wand with another. I lie in my bed and study the night away, with the thick, caramelized scent of Simon Snow wafting off my sheets.

SIMON

So.

The thing is…

Well.

I’m more screwed than I originally thought.

It was my last, groggy thought as I drifted off to sleep last night, and it was my first thought this morning, as I stared out across our beds to watch Baz sleep: this has nothing to do with watching Baz come undone.

All right, maybe not _nothing_ to do with it—I do really like that part.

But, I mean. It’s not my sole motivator.

If it was, then what the hell was last night about? That had way more to do with _me_ coming undone than him.

I tell myself not to think about it.

I tell myself that for the next three days.

Still…my thoughts jump to him constantly. It’s been a long time since those thoughts were “I bet he’s plotting something”. Instead, it’s thoughts like “he’s working too hard” and “he doesn’t eat enough” and “he should be here right now”.

Which is…

Well.

I think I…

I _fancy_ Baz Pitch.

So. Yeah. I'm right screwed, aren't I?

I'm not supposed to fancy him. I'm not even supposed to be friendly with him—at least that's what Baz says. (Though the Crucible did cast us together, and even the Mage said we're supposed to be like brothers.)(Even if he meant in the Cain and Abel sense.)

Anyway. Brothers, or friends, or enemies—no matter how the fuck you slice it, I'm definitely not supposed to _fancy_ him.

Finding him attractive is one thing. I could live with that. I think anyone would find him attractive. It's bloody unfair, how fit and graceful and powerful he is.

But…_liking_ him? That's not supposed to be our dynamic.

I’ve been telling myself for three days that it's hormonal—I’m projecting feelings onto him that aren’t real because I’m a horny seventh year who just realized fooling around with my roommate is a hell of an endorphin rush. (I think Penny would be proud of that assessment.)(Not that I’m about to tell her.)(Sorry, Pen.)

That is, until earlier today, when I was staring at him in class, and all I could think about is how _tired_ he looked—we’ve got exams soon, and he’s always holed up in the library, and he’s coming back to the room so late, and even when he does sneak in, I don’t think he gets very much sleep. His eyes have been looking bruised, droopier than usual.

It made my chest tight.

All I wanted to do was reach out to him. Touch his brow, smooth away the crease. Hold him against my shoulder and kiss his hair and tell him to rest. Just for a bit.

Which is. Fucking tender, isn’t it?

I want to be tender with Baz. I want that soft voice of his in my ear again. (_“Snow…? Are you all right…?”_)

I can’t keep denying it. I think I’ve been feeling like this for a while.

A…long while.

He's a villain, but he hasn't done anything all that villainous in months. _Years_. Not since fifth year, not _really_.

And he's an arse, but his snarking is almost nice sometimes—funny. (Which is kind of messed up. Might make me a masochist or something. I don't know.)

He's smart and ruthless and so fucking _skilled_. Academics, elocution, football, violin—there's nothing he's not good at. (And butt stuff, apparently. Not that I have a point of comparison, but _Merlin—_)

So, I'm.

Yeah.

I like Baz. And I've got no idea what to do about that.

BAZ

It appears Snow is back to stalking me.

Usually, if I look up to find Snow staring at me, he’ll scowl menacingly or grunt and turn away (often to Bunce to complain about me). These past few days have been different. Whenever I catch Snow’s eye, he treats me to alternative responses that I am thoroughly incapable of sussing out. Seven years of studying Simon Snow has not prepared me for these looks.

Now when I catch him, he frowns thoughtfully before glancing off. Sometimes, he chews on his lip. Sometimes, I swear he’s blushing.

It’s been ten days since I made him blush for good reason, all strewn out and keening on my bed. Ten torturous days of me desperately attempting to ignore him while fixed under the puzzling coyness of his new brand of half-stalking.

It’s putting awful ideas into my head. Insipid, hopeful ideas that Simon Snow might be as plagued with thoughts of me as I am of him. (Intimate thoughts, not suspicious ones.)

Which is quite possibly my most foolish and dangerous train of thought yet.

Snow’s staring at me right now. He’s leaning against a bookcase, a text open and ignored in his hands, while he unabashedly surveys me from across the library. I glance up from the table at which I’m studying—he’s just close enough that I can still make out the fading bruise along his cheekbone. (I’m sure he told everyone I punched him, rather than admitting he spelled a box of sex toys into his face.)(If anybody even bothered to ask.) I’m used to seeing Snow with bruises and scraped knuckles and split lips from all his many fights—some with me, some with other dark creatures—but this one is particularly thrilling. This one is clear evidence of what went on all those days ago.

When our eyes meet, Snow doesn’t advert his gaze this time. He simply stares and pushes at his bottom lip with his tongue. It’s infuriating, how erotic I find it. I curl my lip at him in the type of sneer I haven’t been able to manifest in weeks. Snow isn’t daunted—he has the audacity to _grin_ at me, crinkled eyes and all, while sucking his lip into his mouth and torturing it with teeth and tongue. I want to destroy him.

Snow’s eyes dart away, and I’m thinking that’s that, but then they flick back almost immediately. He cocks his jaw, still chewing that infernal lip. I try to sneer harder, crueller. Snow simply slaps the book in his hands shut and gives a jerk of his head in the vague direction of the library’s doors.

My eyebrow flies up. What in all the circles of hell is he wordlessly trying to communicate?

Snow reshelves the book (improperly, I’m sure), shifts his bag on his shoulder, and then heads for the exit. I’m so supremely perplexed, I track him with my gaze the entire time.

Nasty little gremlin that he is, he actually gives me one last eye-crinkling smirk over his shoulder before disappearing out the doors.

Is…is Simon Snow _beckoning_ me?

SIMON

Baz hates me. I know that.

But he also _wants_ me. Maybe in the fucked up way I thought I wanted him—as some kind of power play.

Whatever his motivations, it’s pretty clear he likes doing sex stuff with me. Me, specifically. Because unless he’s haunting some other bloke’s room when I think he’s off studying or hunting, it doesn’t seem like Baz is getting on with anyone else in that way.

I’d notice, now that I know the signs. If he came back to the room all flushed and weak-kneed and smelling like sex…I’d notice.

Just me, then.

(Which is good. The thought of him doing these things with anyone else makes me burn and itch all over.)

The place I want him is the same place he wants to be. It’s as simple as that.

I’ve not got the patience to wait for another “lesson” with Baz. I’ve not got the mind to manipulate him into one, either. I’ve always done best with the direct approach.

Can’t exactly proposition him if he’s never in the room any more. Can’t do it out in the open where someone could overhear us, either. (Baz would never forgive me) So…I give Baz my best _“come hither” _and hope I looked sexy and not stupid.

He needs a study break. Some stress relief. I can help him with that.

And if it means I get to be close to him, without having to pick a fight, all the better.

Maybe it can solve something between us. I don’t expect him to ever start _liking_ me, but it’s better than always fighting.

Merlin. It’s _so_ much better than fighting.

I’m thrumming with nervous energy as I haul myself towards Mummers. I hope he got the hint. I hope he’s not going to stand me up.

How fucking pathetic would it be to be stood up in your own room?

BAZ

I’m going to focus all of my fury and humiliation into erecting an impeccably crafted funeral pyre. Then I’m going to ceremonially drain Snow to within an inch of his life and bridal carry him into the flames with me.

It’s the fate he deserves for making me so absolutely idiotic with lust for him that I thought he was—of all things!—suggesting a _booty call._

I’m an absolute imbecile.

I waited seven minutes after Snow left the library, then I carried myself to our room with an embarrassing swiftness.

He’s not. Fucking. Here.

I’m truly a pathetic sod.

I collapse face-first onto my bed with a harrumph, because I’m feeling every type of petulant.

Did he not realize what he was communicating? (I’ll pound it into him. In all ways imaginable.)

Was he fucking with me? (I’ll do so much worse than drain him.)

Does he think he can just stand me up now? That I’m some plaything of his? (I _am_, but he’s not supposed to _know_ that.)

I’ll make him regret it—I’ll make him regret it in all the ways I promised to last time _and more_.

Yes.

Yes, that’s a good plan.

Snow had his bag with him in the library, and it’s not in the room presently. He’ll be back before dinner to drop it off—and to find me here so he can gloat, I’m certain.

When he arrives, the Anathema will regrettably prevent me from strangling him. That doesn’t mean I can’t make him choke in other ways.

I’m superior to Snow in nearly everything. If he thinks he can fuck with me, then I’ll just have to show him how much better I am at fucking myself.

That’ll teach him.

SIMON

Baz is going to _kill me_.

The Mage called out while I was legging it through the courtyard. He’s just come back from a few days away and wanted us to walk together to his office, catch me up on things before end of term. I kept trying to excuse myself. The last things I wanted on my mind were the Mage and his raids on the Old Families.

He could tell I wasn’t focused on anything he was saying. The longer it went on, the more my magic stank up his office. I told him I was just really focused on revising for exams next week.

The Mage seemed a bit proud of me for that. Not sure how that makes me feel.

It’s real easy to shake my head clear of those thoughts as I finally make a run for our room. I’m not sure how long it’s been. Too long. I hope Baz is still there—

He is, I realize as I throw open the door to our room. He is very much still here. He is very much an eyeful.

“In or out,” Baz snaps.

I slam the door shut and lean against it. “You—” My voice cracks, and I wince.

I’m pretty sure Baz is smirking in that way that should be genuinely scary. I can’t tell though, because my eyes are glued to the display before me.

Baz is bare from the waist down, save for his socks (his feet get cold easily). He’s bent over, on his knees, bracing himself on one arm, with the other reaching back to hold the dildo that’s buried inside him.

“Jesus Christ, Baz,” I choke out. My voice is strained, and I’m still panting from my run up five flights of stairs.

“_Déjà vu_, Snow.”

“You—” I try again. I can’t drag my eyes away from Baz’s arse. His _completely bare_ arse. “You got started without me.”

Baz scoffs. His elegant fingers grip the dildo’s base tighter and give it a long, _slow_ pull, like he’s showing off the full extent of just how much he had filling him up. He pulls (and pulls) until the lip of the toy’s head makes his rim pucker out around it. It’s painfully, overwhelmingly hot.

Between the breathlessness of getting myself here as fast as possible and how quickly all my blood’s flowing to my dick, I think I’m going to pass out.

“I hate to be the one to break this to you, Snow,” Baz drawls, his voice thick with pleasure as his muscles flutter around the dildo’s head, “but my world doesn’t revolve around you.” He pushes it back in, inch by sloppy inch, until it’s fully seated inside him. He makes the most delicious moan as he does it.

As Baz slowly fucks himself again and _again_, all I can do is pant and watch. Which is apparently exactly what Baz wants—the moment I gather enough of my wits to take a step further, Baz clucks his tongue at me.

“Who said you could join me?”

That finally breaks me from my trance enough to gawk at him—at his face, I mean. “What?”

Baz is scowling at me, one eyebrow up, looking daunting as all hell. (Seriously, _how_ can he look so domineering while buggering himself?) “I told you,” he says bitingly, “this isn’t about you.” Baz gives the toy a quick movement—in and out. “_Hnn_, you can watch,” he adds, with another fast thrust and a moan, “but that’s all.”

I frown and work my fists at my sides. I’m doing my best to keep my eyes on his. Real difficult when he’s putting on a show—

“Baz, in the library....” I take another step, but the vicious narrowing of his glare makes me stop there. “I— I was trying to tell you—”

“I know full well what you were attempting to communicate, Snow.” Baz’s enunciation is sharp. “And I don’t particularly care.”

Fuck. Baz thinks I was messing with him, doesn’t he? He’s pissed and this is my punishment.

“The Mage called me to his office,” I sputter. “I tried to get away as fast as possible. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Baz hasn’t stopped rocking the toy in him. The squish of the lube and the hums of his pleasure are impossible to tune out. It’s getting harder and harder to not look, but I need to keep my gaze on his. I need him to _know—_

“Does it _look_ like I waited for you?” Baz widens his knees and rolls his hips into another showy, wet thrust. He gives a long moan, and even knowing that it’s mostly for effect, the sound still makes my cock fill further.

Fucking hell— All right, then. If Baz wants to be stubborn, I can be stubborn right back.

“What it looks like is that you got ready so we could jump straight to the good stuff,” I say. I finally slip my bag off my shoulder and set it down. I undo the button on my blazer next.

“This isn’t about you,” he insists.

I shrug off my blazer and drop it onto the floor near my bag. “Then why are you giving me the best view possible?”

I’m really not as stupid as Baz likes to think. He sneers at me, but I can see the faint flush on his cheeks fanning out further.

“Because you’re the one who’s going to wait,” he says slowly. “You’re going to stand there and watch and not be able to do anything about it.”

I grin at him, sure to keep our eyes locked, even while he continues to tempt me with all variety of thrusts and sounds. “Is this a lesson in patience?”

Baz’s expression shifts into a smirk too—a dark one that makes my balls tighten. I used to think that was a fear or anger response, but turns out it’s something so much more carnal than that.

“Sure, let’s call it that,” he drawls. Baz rocks his hips into a few short bucks along the toy, each one of them making my arousal tick up more and more.

“I’ve always been shit at patience.” I open the top button of my shirt and loosen my tie enough that I can pull it over my head. I let that drop with my other things, too.

Baz tracks all of my movements with a wild intensity. Even in a situation like this, he makes me feel like I’m the one being hunted. It makes me _ache_.

“Practice makes perfect,” Baz says, all breathy.

“I think I’d rather fail this one.” I pop the next two buttons of my shirt. Baz’s mouth falls open, and he tongues at his canine and the corner of his lips while staring at my throat. It should probably be concerning—instead, I’m even more turned on. “How about we jump ahead to the next lesson?”

Baz swirls his tongue across his lips and fixes me with his stormy eyes once more. “And what lesson is that?”

Finally, _finally_, I drop my sights back to Baz’s arse. _Merlin_, he looks so good. Stretched around the dildo and glistening with lube. There’s wetness dribbling down his taint. I gulp and follow the trail along the underside of Baz’s bollocks and cock, all flushed and heavily swaying with each of pump of his toy. He really did set me up with the perfect view. My mouth’s pooling.

I gulp again. “The lesson in how I can get you to come while screaming my name.”

BAZ

_Great snakes_.

As if it weren’t unfathomable enough that Simon Snow is practically drooling at the sight of me (and not for the first time), he’s now luring me into booty calls and wants me to scream for him as he makes me come.

A full-bodied shiver shoots through me at the prospect. I freeze up and close my eyes, moaning as I ride it out. It’s humiliating, how his words shoved me so close to the brink. I relish in the shudder of it all the same.

I must make a gorgeous sight. I can hear Snow groaning out an unsteady “_fuck_, Baz,” as I breathe hard and struggle to gather up my dwindling reserves into some semblance of restraint.

There’s a commotion behind me, which helps distract me from near-bursting. I open my eyes to give Snow a withering glare over my shoulder as he bumbles about with getting his shoes and socks off, all while refusing to look away from me. He’s clumsy on the best of days—the extremely obvious erection he’s sporting isn’t doing him any favours.

I lick my lips again. I’m still too close to the edge, so I tease Snow (and myself) by simply squeezing around the half-buried dildo. Snow grunts through his nose as I clench, release, clench, release. It feels wonderful, though most of my pleasure is derived from the way Snow’s staring at me like I’m the best meal he’s ever seen. (Which is saying a lot.)

I shouldn’t be encouraging any of this. I’m only going to hate myself once the euphoria fades away. But I’m so weak, and he _wants me_. It doesn’t matter that he hates me and that this is all a power play for him. I’ll take whatever he’s willing to give me.

Then summer will pass, and we can live out our final year at Watford only at each other’s throats in the usual metaphorical fashion (but how I _wish_—). I’ll have the memory of these moments to carry me through. At the end, we’ll duel, and he can rid the world of me once and for all—I’ll kiss him and tell him I’ve always loved him, and _that_ will be when I finally get my tender moment with Simon Snow.

For tonight, though…I can have this.

“All right, you audacious terror,” I concede, shamefully breathless. “Since you’re so confident, you’ll be graded extra harshly this time.”

“Yeah?” Snow gifts me with a glowing lopsided grin. “Cool. What, um....” Snow takes the final two steps to the foot of my bed. I instinctively push my hips back in a vain attempt to be closer to him. “What should I do?”

How to pick? There are so many things I want him to do, but only a few things I can _ask_ for.

Forget the stench of Snow’s magic—I’m intoxicated by so many other parts of him. Like the peek of his pink tongue as he eyes me so lasciviously, like the expanse of his freckled chest from where he’s opened his shirt, like the bulge in his trousers at the sight of me, and—_oh, Crowley, yes_—like the sight of his hands as he tactlessly tears at his belt.

I want to imbibe on all of him. Sight isn’t enough. I need smell, I need taste, I need _touch_—

I need Simon Snow inside me in every single way, until my entire world narrows to just him, until I have _no choice_ but to scream his name because it will be the only word left in my head.

“Baz?” Snow sounds amused—which makes me realize I’ve gone all stupefied staring at his crotch again. (Will my humiliation never cease?)

I clear my throat. “Take your prick out,” I say. _‘And let me taste it,’_ I don’t say. That seems like it would be crossing a line.

(There used to be a very simple line between me and Snow: _‘Don't interact unless it’s to make his life hell.’_ Now we’ve gone and complicated things, leaving us with complex lines like: _‘Don't do anything other than arse-play, otherwise it will become too difficult to claim this is all just some weird teacher-student roleplay.’_)

“R-right.” Snow opens his flies and, to my shock and delight, lets his trousers fall to the floor. “Then what?” he asks while hurriedly discarding his boxers, as well.

Simon Snow is standing at the foot of my bed, wearing only his half-buttoned uniform shirt, and asking for instructions on how to give me a mind-shattering orgasm.

I’m going to regret this, but I don’t _care_.

“Get on the bed,” I say, my tone not nearly as commanding as I’d like.

SIMON

He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

I scramble up onto Baz’s bed. I knock into one of his legs a bit in the process, muttering an apology as I settle upright on my knees between Baz’s spread legs. Not too close.

Baz is trembling. I wonder if he’s cold, or scared—or just that excited. Fuck, _I’m_ that excited. I haven’t even stroked myself yet, but I’m ready to blow.

“And now?” I ask. Ugh, I sound pathetically eager, don’t I? Baz would mock me for it, if he wasn’t worse off than me.

Merlin. I love seeing him like this. Baz’s gaze is unfocused, and his answers come so slowly. He’s dribbling precome onto the sheets. (I wonder what it tastes like.)(I wonder if come and precome taste different.)(They must, right?)

“Well,” Baz drawls slowly, “you’re the smart-arse who thinks he can skip ahead in his lessons.” He pushes his hips back and gives the dildo a jostle. “Why don’t you show me?”

_Fuck_, yes. I’ve been dying to touch him, and that’s as good an invitation as any.

I slide my hand over Baz’s, gripping the base of the toy with him. He gasps and turns his head from me, hanging it down the way he does when it all gets to be too much. I wish he wouldn’t hide, I wish I could see him—

“_Crowley_,” Baz groans when I give the toy a long tug and then push it back in. “_Yes_, Snow.”

“Mm, sounds like a good start,” I say, which makes Baz grunt stubbornly. Git. I’ll show him. He’s the one who’s going to get a lesson in patience.

I keep my fingers pressed over his and find a lazy pace. I ease the dildo out until the crest of its head tugs at Baz’s rim, just like he demonstrated, and then I urge it inside even slower. Baz is releasing these soft, greedy sounds—I’m not going as fast as he’d like. And I’m just fine with that, because it’s making him shudder, and soon enough it’s making him _whine_. He could tell me to hurry up, or go faster on his own, but he isn’t doing anything like that—he’s letting me guide his hand completely. Baz is a willing victim to it.

It’s bloody brilliant, making Baz fuck himself over and over. Making him do it at the tempo I’ve set. I’m torturing him, and he’s letting me. It’s all wrong—the wrong pace for him, just _wrong_ in general—but I can’t help but think that this is the closest we’ve ever gotten to doing things _right_.

I want to get even closer to that.

“It’s not enough, is it?” I ask Baz while easing the dildo out again. I keep it there, pulling just slightly enough that the lip threatens to break past Baz’s entrance—I wonder if that would feel good, or if it would hurt. (I don’t want to hurt him.) I watch his muscles twitch against the pressure from inside.

“What do you think?” Baz snarks back. He’s panting and trying so hard not to give in—all of him is tense. Even his fingers under mine are twitching eagerly. He wants to push it back in _so bad_.

“Tell me how to do it for you, Baz.”

I sink the toy back into him suddenly. It’s not too fast, but it’s definitely faster than I’ve been giving him so far. Baz arches and releases the most lovely cry when I do it, tossing his head back.

“Fuck—! You’re…_hnngh_…,” Baz whimpers. “You’re supposed to…_fuck_—”

I’m still pushing the toy, even though it’s in him all the way. I’m pushing until the flared base is plastered against him. It makes Baz quiver in desperation even harder. He’s not able to hold back this time, but he can’t do much with my hand flatly trapping his, so his only option is to shove his hips back and forth. It’s futile—every time he attempts to slide off it a little, I push more. He tries to growl in frustration, but it comes out sounding so sweetly broken.

“Don’t be like that,” I say. I lean over Baz some, and he arches back. We’re still only making contact at our hands. (I want to get _closer_—)(Now I’m the one getting impatient after all.) “Teach me, Baz.” I shove more, and Baz chokes on a gasp. “What should I do?”

Baz is breathing so hard. I can feel his body clamping around the dildo repeatedly as his hips continue small, useless movements. Merlin…he’s so far gone. I worry I might make him come just from this—it would be insanely hot, but I want him to give me so much more before we get there.

I ease back—his muscles do most of the work for me, letting the dildo slip out of him half-way. Baz releases a wavering sound of relief. He can’t hold himself up any longer—he drops to his one elbow and pants heavily into his pillow.

After a few seconds of him just catching his breath, Baz nudges his hand out from under mine. I let him go—I can’t imagine it’s all that comfortable to have his arm wrenched back like that the whole time. It’s a good thing I’m here to help. I’d gladly be the one to fuck him with a toy whenever he wants a wank, if he’d let me.

I lazily rock a few inches of the dildo in and out as Baz settles more comfortably onto both elbows. He used a lot of lube this time—or maybe he spelled it—the toy’s still well wet. It’s making these terribly dirty sounds that I feel embarrassed for loving as much as I do.

Baz finally glances over his shoulder at me—the look in his blown eyes makes my cock jump. He’s sweaty and flushed and so damn imperious. He’s fucking breathtaking.

He always is.

“Hard and fast,” he belatedly answers me. “Like last time.”

“Nuh-uh.” I grin at him, and something dangerous flashes in Baz’s eyes. (_Fuck_, I love that glare—) “There needs to be more than that. I want you to scream my name, remember?”

Baz curls back his lip to snarl. His teeth gleam menacingly. I’m so fucking hot for him, all my stupid brain can think is _‘yes, fuck, please bite me’_—which is definitely not something I should say.

“Then do it _better_,” he growls.

I gulp and try again. “Baz.” I lean over him as much as I can without needing to brace myself on my other arm. (I’m nervous about getting that close.)(I don’t want to scare him.) “I want you to know it’s me making you feel like this. I want to fuck you so good, you never forget it.”

Baz’s eyes go wide. My face is burning, but I hold his gaze. A stuttering exhale comes out his nose, and then, with a whimper, he whips his head away from me again.

For a split second, I worry it’s a bad reaction. Judging by the way his hole starts twitching around the fake cock, I realize it’s actually a _very good_ reaction.

BAZ

Simon Snow was always going to be the death of me. I simply didn’t think that fate would be like _this_.

How am I to keep any control of my mental faculties when he’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off of him? When he’s saying such wonderfully filthy things? When he’s making so many of my fantasies come true—all at once?

_‘I want to fuck you so good, you never forget it.’_

Merlin and Morgana…those words echo throughout my body with every throb of the pulse in my cock.

_I want that, too, Snow. I want you to fuck me _properly_. Take me, claim me. Burn me with your passion until there’s nothing left. Let me find peace._

I don’t think I could live with myself if I truly let Simon fuck me (provided I could even survive such an endeavour). I’d never recover from it. I’m flying close enough to the sun as is....

“Baz…?” The way he says my name makes fireworks go off inside me.

“I’m thinking,” I say. I sound wrecked already. I clear my throat.

“Yeah, I got that.” Snow’s grin is evident in his voice. He rubs his left hand along my hip and arse while his right continues to work the dildo in a steady rhythm. “Don’t overthink it,” he says. (Simpleton.)

I sigh my pleasure at his touch. His fingers dare to explore underneath my shirt-tails, caressing the skin of my waist. I shiver at how curiously intimate it feels.

“I need—” I hesitate, biting my lip.

“Mmm?” Snow wiggles the toy around, swirling it, nudging it against my walls. My mind goes blank. “You need what?” He sounds so self-satisfied—I want to flip us over and spit on him. Instead, I can barely manage _breathing_ as he teases my insides, grazing my prostate with infuriating competency. “Come on,” he purrs. I want that husky voice right up against my ear— “Tell me how to fuck you, Baz.”

“Y-you’re doing it, you bastard.” I’m huffing and puffing, embarrassing sounds falling out of me every time he gets it _just right_—

“Nuh-uh.” Snow slides his free hand to the cleft of my arse. He strokes at my swollen entrance, exploring the stretch of it. I shudder, hard. “More than this. Let me give you more.” He’s smearing the magically-enhanced lube around noisily as he tortures my over-sensitive flesh.

There’s a lust-blinded moment where I can so clearly envision Snow rubbing the excess slickness on himself and then just shoving in, right alongside the dildo. He could use me and the fake cock however he wants, both of us his playthings.

It’s an absurd fantasy. (Vampires have high pain tolerance, but I’m still not enough of a masochist to attempt such a thing.)(Not right away.) Yet despite the absurdity, it does make me all the hungrier to have Snow claim _more of me_—

All the lines are so blurred…we’ve already pushed things so far.

If this will be my final time ever reaching orgasmic bliss in Snow’s presence—if he wants to make me _scream_—then why not crank things up one more notch?

Snow thrusts in a particularly good way which wrenches a long groan from me. “A-all right, all right—” I squirm against his assault. “Wait—”

He obediently stills the dildo, though he continues petting me. Snow swipes his thumb along my rim in tantalizing patterns. “Tell me what to do,” he insists, so fucking charming. I want to cry, I want to come, I want to make him wretched—

I shift my weight onto one elbow and knee, then give Snow a solid nudge with my other leg. “Move,” I grunt, and after some of his clumsy bumbling (and him nearly letting the dildo escape me), we finally manage to get my legs on the inside, with Snow’s knees bracketing me.

He gulps. “So now…?”

I reach my free hand down between my legs. I give Snow a heated look over my shoulder as I cup myself. “Put it here,” I tell him, drumming my fingers along my taint. His gaze snaps down, and I luxuriate in how transfixed he is. He’s red from his ears to his chest.

“The…dildo?” he chokes out.

“No. That’s going to stay exactly where it is.” I drum my fingers again—I swear I can _hear_ the throb of Snow’s cock. “Put your prick here.”

“You…you want me to…p-put—” Snow licks his lips, swallows, tries again. “Put my prick between your legs.”

“Yes,” I breathe. His reaction is making my yearning all the worse. I love seeing him so undone by the mere idea of his cock touching me. “You’re going to thigh-fuck me, Snow. What better way to assure I can’t forget your involvement in what is promising to be the best orgasm of my life?”

Snow huffs and grunts—it’s aggressively obvious how much the idea turns him on. He’s an animal eager to mark what’s his. Snow’s always enjoyed stalking me, but this is the first time I’ve realized just how _predatory_ it all is.

“You asked for it,” he threatens.

I angle my hips back and give them an enticing sway. “_I did_.”

SIMON

I’d really worry I’m about to go off if we hadn’t already fooled around with each other a few times. (Though, I’m still a little worried.)(I _really_ feel like I’m about to lose it.)

Baz is so fucking hot, I’m furious about it. Why did I only notice this now? With so little time left in the semester? We could have been doing this for years! Or, well, at least a _while_—

_Don’t think about that. Think about now._

That’s easy enough, with Baz underneath my hands, hard and flushed and wet and trembling and _wanting— _Wanting _me_—

I grab hold of my prick so I can aim myself—I’m so stupidly aroused, it’s an effort not to come just from that much. I moan and try to steady myself.

“Don’t you dare come before me,” Baz rumbles.

“R-right—” I set my jaw and close my eyes, breathing hard.

_Don’t think about now, either. Think about—uh—about goats. About merewolves. About goblins. No, fuck, don’t think about goblins—_

Baz is a right fucking bully. He knows I’m struggling, yet he pushes back impatiently anyway. I yell, my eyes flying open when I feel my tip make contact with something. Baz _purrs_ and rubs against me, caressing my head with the soft spot between his arse and bollocks. He’s warm and slick and a _bully_.

“_Ba-az_,” I growl. I squeeze my base tight enough to hurt, which thankfully keeps me from coming all over him.

_Oh God, Baz is going to let me come on him—_

My hips jerk on their own. I shove myself between Baz’s legs, unable to hold back. He gasps and squirms under me.

“Yes…!” Baz lets his head drop back down, moaning into his pillow. He holds himself out of the way so that when I jerk my hips again, all I can feel is the wet heat of his taint and thighs.

“Oh fuck— Fuck, Baz—”

It’s blindingly good. I let go of my cock and grip Baz’s arse instead. I give another thrust of my hips while my fingers dig into his skin. He hisses beautifully.

Even though my movements are ragged and frantic, Baz is making all sorts of delicious sounds with each thrust. I’m not sure how it can feel good for him. He seems really into it, though. Which honestly just makes me even hotter.

My other hand’s still holding the dildo. I don’t know how to fuck Baz with it and move my hips at the same time. I don’t think I can manage that level of coordination right now. The white-hot pleasure of Baz’s body around my dick is melting my brain.

Each pump of my hips makes my stomach bump into the dildo’s flared base. I cautiously release it, causing it to slide out as my hips pull back. And when I bury myself between Baz’s legs once more, my belly does the work of filling Baz with the dildo again. He keens out a long, low sound in response.

“Good?” I ask him. I’m breathing so fast.

“G-good,” he warbles. (Merlin, that _voice_—) “So—_ah_…fuck, Snow. Yes. Good, _mmnn_, so good—”

I’m sweating and I’m holding his arse cheeks too tight and I’m so fucking entranced by the sight of us. My hands are leaving marks on his porcelain skin. (I wonder how long they’ll last.) My cock’s between Baz’s legs, and my stomach’s guiding the toy. It sort of looks like I’ve got two dicks. Which is probably a bit hotter of a thought than it should be. All the better to pleasure Baz with, apparently. And I like that—I like making him so wanton. I want him to always be this shameless for me (only me)—he shouldn’t hide anything from me ever again.

“Oh, Baz....” I bend over him to better angle my thrusts. Baz squeezes his legs around me and whines, which I’m pretty sure is a sign of appreciation. I know I’m appreciative—it feels absolutely fucking incredible.

“_Snow_,” Baz whimpers.

He’s driving me mad. I can’t resist him. I want to hold him—

I slide my arm around Baz’s waist and press my splayed hand against his stomach. He gasps—his opposite hand flies up from where he was holding himself, catching my wrist. I think he’s going to push me away, so I groan in complaint. Instead, he digs his nails in and traps me there. I groan again, definitely not in complaint.

I curl over Baz’s body, my hips snapping erratically as I press flush against his back—

Baz yelps, a high, pained sound. It’s so startling, and I’m so fogged over with lust, I’m not even sure what’s happened. Baz’s reflexes are lightning-fast—which is a good thing, given—he quickly twists around to clutch my shoulder and shove me back.

Everything stops. We both simply stare at each other, frozen and panting, as Baz holds my upper body at arm’s-length.

He looks terrified.

(I didn’t want to scare him—)

Baz’s wide eyes flick down to my chest, then away, off somewhere, not back to me.

“Baz…?”

I look down at my own chest. And then feel like a right fucking idiot.

My cross.

“_Fuck_—” I straighten up all the way, Baz’s arm dropping, and I begin scrabbling at the clasp.

“It—” Baz clears his throat and turns back, ducking his head down. “It just—poked me. Surprised me.”

“Right.” My voice is tight. I feel like such a stupid jerk.

(I didn’t want to _hurt_ him—)

I growl at the bloody clasp that absolutely will not fucking come undone. I finally have to just yank the thing off me. I toss it across the room—Baz visibly relaxes.

“Fuck,” I say again.

Cautiously, I set my hands on the small of Baz’s back. He lets out a shaky exhale.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Baz bites out. Too fast.

“Are you really?”

“_Yes._ Keep going.” He doesn’t _sound_ like he wants me to keep going. He sounds upset. I don’t want him to be upset. (_I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to scare him._)

“I just want to make _sure_—”

“_Shut. Up._”

I grunt at him. “Excuse me for caring.”

“I’d hate to think you’re growing soft for me, Snow,” Baz snaps, throwing my own words from last time back in my face because all he ever does is go for the lowest possible blow.

I take a deep breath and try to push down the strange swell of hurt that’s blooming in my chest.

I _am_ soft for him, aren’t I? For some reason. (For too many reasons.)

And he’s…not.

I know that. I’ve always known that. Baz Pitch hates me. That’s—that’s just the way things _are_.

But it still _hurts_.

“Snow,” he insists, pressing his hips back along me.

“R…right.”

I’ve gone a bit soft between his legs.

Baz doesn’t want me to be soft.

I take Baz’s hips into my hands and try to find a rhythm again.

If this is as much of Baz as I can ever get, then I might as well take all that he’s giving me. Even if it will never be enough, at least it’s _something_.

I slowly rock my hips and fold over Baz, until my stomach brushes his back. He tenses, but at least this time I know it’s not from the cross. (I guess this time it’s just because he doesn’t like it.)(_Don’t think about it—_)

Baz moves his hips with me, helping us work back up from that extremely unsexy intermission. I worried for a minute that I’d have trouble getting fully hard again, except it doesn’t take long at all. Baz’s thighs are strong, but this spot is plush, welcoming. It’s impossible to not growl and tremble as we draw the pleasure from each other’s bodies.

“There we go…,” Baz sighs. “Good, Snow.”

I can feel him reach a hand between his legs again. This time, he doesn’t hold himself away from me. Baz takes hold of his cock, stroking it. His sack is left to hang there, swaying with each eager slap of my hips against Baz’s flushed arse. My tip brushes the back of his bollocks if I nail the angle, which makes Baz release these stuttering sounds.

“Oh—” I grunt. “Oh, fuck, yeah…Baz—”

“_Mmmn_…that’s good, that’s good, don’t stop, Snow, you’re doing _so well_—”

I choke out a wild sound at Baz Pitch telling me I’m _good_ at something. I speed up without meaning to—Baz mewls and writhes and doesn’t seem the least bit displeased. I fuck him faster, not giving the dildo in him much time to slip out before I’m shoving it back in again. I’m not doing much more than simply jostling it in Baz each time, which apparently pleases him just fine—he’s only holding his cock now, not even wanking it, while gasping out a string of “_yes, yes, yes—!_”

I fold over Baz all the way, pressing flat to his back. It feels so good—feels _right_. It feels like this is where I should be—where we _both_ should be. Right here, where he’s mine, where he’s safe, where we’re not hurting each other or anyone else.

He smells amazing, even like this, a little sweaty. (I’m a lot sweaty and probably don’t smell very good at all.) He has a thicker scent than usual, more woodsy than citrus. I want to breathe him in, get drunk off him. I _am_ drunk off him.

I tuck my neck down to rest my forehead between his shoulder blades. Baz gasps and shifts under me—I can feel a shiver run through him. I circle my arm back around his waist and press my fingers against the fabric there.

(It’s good he’s wearing a shirt, otherwise I don’t think I’d be able to resist kissing his skin. That’s not something we do—kissing.)

Baz releases himself and shimmies his hips in such a way that the head of my cock glides right along the seam of his bollocks. It’s weird and exciting. I nudge my hips flat to his arse and pant noisily into his back as we simply rock together like that, hardly separating, impossibly close. Baz is making these soft, high-pitched sounds with each huff through his nose as my tip kisses his sack over and over.

I’ve smeared precome all over Baz, making him even more slippery. He’s so easy to fuck. His body is so receptive. It’s _right_, it’s _so fucking right_—

BAZ

“You take my cock so good,” Snow blurts. “Oh, Baz— It’s perfect. You’re perfect. We’re perfect like this.”

“Fuck, Snow—” I’m gasping as tears spring to my eyes. Snow curls over me more and I, in all my foolish desperation, crane back to meet him. “Yes, oh Merlin, Snow, _yes_—”

Snow nudges his nose into the crook of my neck, making me whimper with the intimacy of it. His breaths are coming loud and hot, ruffling my hair, rushing past my skin. I have goosebumps. I’m sparking inside, excruciatingly sensitive to his proximity. It feels like at any moment one of those heavy breaths of his could come out as fire—Crowley, I _welcome_ it.

_Set me alight, Simon Snow._

“Baz,” he moans. His voice is so close to my ear, buttery and wavering.

“Please,” I beg. Something, anything—just _more_. I want him to envelop me, consume me the way I’m so desperate to consume him.

Snow growls and shoves at me more urgently, as if he’s trying to do just that. “Yeah, Baz— Fuck, that’s it, that’s it.” It feels like he’s trying to fuse us. His grip around my waist is uncomfortably tight and the press of his hips is trapping the dildo so deep.

It’s _still_ not enough.

“Please, _please_—” I clutch at his wrist again, holding him to me.

“Anything,” he says. “Whatever you want—I’ll do it.”

A burst of pleasure rushes through me at his words. I squeeze my thighs tighter around him in gratitude, which makes him groan and falter. I can feel the frenzied pulse in his cock—he’s devastatingly close. I am, too—my bollocks are high and tight, and each time Snow’s crown swipes sticky kisses along them, I feel increasingly addled with my mounting pleasure.

But I’m greedy—I want more, while I can still get it—

I dig my fingers into his wrist harder and push, driving his hand down....

I direct Snow’s fingers to follow the trail of crisp hair, into the plushness of my abdomen, right at the base of my erection. He startles, but there’s no time for me to grow anxious—Snow’s reflexes in sex and war are the same: no hesitation.

A truly pornographic sound wrenches out of me when Snow’s fingers curl around my length. His hands are dry and calloused, and I don’t give a damn.

He’s stroking me and fucking himself between my legs, and I’m so overwhelmingly full. _Finally_. Finally, I feel _full_. Of the toy, of pleasure, of his sound and scent and his _touch_—oh, merciful Morgana, _his touch_. He’s over me and on me and in me, so close and hot I can taste him on the back of my tongue, like thick caramel. He’s everything.

He’s the sun, he’s _everything_, he’s heat, he’s fire, he’s _here_, he’s _mine_, he’s the _sun_—

And I’m crashing into him.

SIMON

Touching Baz’s prick feels like the last puzzle piece slotting into place. Which is not something I ever thought I’d think about Baz _or_ a prick, but there you go.

I think he’s crying, and I start to worry maybe it’s too much, maybe I’m hurting him again somehow. But then Baz is doing the one thing I set out to make him do: he’s screaming my name.

Except he’s not really screaming it, more like sobbing it. And it’s not really my name—I mean, it _is_, but it’s not the name _he_ usually calls me.

It’s more than I dared hope for. It’s too good to be true.

Then he does it again, and I know I didn’t hallucinate it:

“_Simon!_”

My heart feels like it’s going to burst. All of me does, really. I whimper and shove my face into his shoulder and whimper more.

Baz completely falls apart in my arms. I can feel every pulse of his bollocks and cock as his orgasm tears through him. He’s coming and coming with these harsh, full-bodied shudders. I’m so overwhelmed with how _he’s_ so overwhelmed—I lose the coordination in my hand and hips, only managing pathetically desperate humping into the frenzied rhythm of Baz’s convulsions. I don’t think Baz minds that I can’t keep stroking his cock in any meaningful way—his orgasm doesn’t seem to be suffering for it.

He spasms through every wave of it, releasing these wet, strangled sounds. It’s beautiful, he’s beautiful. He’s crying and a complete mess and he’s _mine_—

BAZ

_I love you, I love you, I love you—_

SIMON

Baz shoves his face into his pillow, even though I can’t really see him from this angle anyway. It muffles his sounds, but they’re still _so good_. Every broken note of pleasure feels like a stroke from my hole to the tip of my cock. I can’t take it—

His noises get lower and softer as he starts to come down. I release his spent dick and rub my hand along his stomach instead. Baz’s body begins to sag—I angle my wildly pumping hips so that I’m only shoving into the softness of his taint again.

“A little more,” I moan into his heaving shoulder. “Just a little more, baby.”

The pillow muffles Baz’s wail. I want to ask if he’s okay, but I can’t—everything’s narrowing into that tight, burning moment where pleasure rockets to its peak—

BAZ

Simon Snow’s orgasms are exactly the production you would expect of a man who makes a show over the simple acts of swallowing or shrugging.

He curses and bucks and squeezes too tight. He comes with such glorious abandon, it makes me feel like I’m coming again vicariously.

He’s so much. He’s so hot. He’s so _alive_—

Simon continues moaning into my shoulder as the waves of his pleasure grow more and more subdued until he's still. I use the time to collect myself—I can’t be crying into my pillow once he comes back to his senses.

What a mess.

Truly, I thought I could handle letting Simon use me. I thought I was strong enough.

I was wrong.

I am so, _so_ much weaker than I realized.

I was such a fool for thinking I could handle Snow using me without letting it break my heart.

I’m pathetic....

One near-shag and I’m so overcome with feelings for him, I can’t even hold back the tears. I’m choking on the intimacy—and isn’t that just salt in the wound. Here I was, deluding myself into thinking I could make Snow choke for me, when in actuality it’s always been the other way around. I’ve always been at his mercy. I was always going to come out of this the loser.

I’ve no sense of self-preservation in the throes of passion with him. I almost outed myself as a vampire, I cried, I called him Simon, I very nearly told him I love him—

My shirt is sticking to me from the dampness of our sweat and Snow’s warm panting into my shoulder. There’s moisture prickling where we’re pressed skin to skin. Snow’s come is dribbling down my thighs.

I’ve never felt so besotted.

I’ve never felt so hopeless.

I’ve never felt so stupid and disgusting.

Slowly, he begins to stir again. I take an uneven breath and lower myself onto the bed fully, away from him. Snow sucks in a breath—the temperature difference is stark.

“Oh, um....” Snow withdraws his hands from me. “Baz—”

“Get off, Snow.” I hope my pillow muffles how awful I sound.

“Are you all right…?”

Curse him.

“_Get off me._”

Snow scrambles to the side, all clumsy bluster. I roll the other way, hiding my backside and my face from him as best I can while I remove the dildo.

It’s disgusting, I’m disgusting—

“Baz?” he tries again, because _of course_ he does. “Are you okay?”

I push my weary body off the bed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re crying—”

“Fuck off.” I pluck up my wand and drag myself to my wardrobe to tug out my dressing gown.

“Baz, hey....” Snow is up, padding over to me.

I ignore him, but as I try to slip past him for the en suite, he grabs my arm.

“Ba—”

“_Don’t_,” I hiss, whipping myself free of his grip with more speed than a human should possess. I pin him with what I hope is a truly venomous gaze. “_Don’t touch me_.”

Snow stumbles back a step. His eyes are wide. “S-sorry, I—”

“In fact,” I spit, “don’t ever touch me again.”

“I don’t understand—”

I bark out a humourless laugh. “That’s a given. Let me make it perfectly clear for you, Snow. _This_,”—I make an overly dramatic flourish with the dildo still in my grasp, gesturing at the entire scene of debauchery between us—“is over. Do not. _Ever_. Touch me. _Again_.”

There’s a whole variety of emotions that flit across Snow’s face. His jaw is working, but only wordless sounds of confusion fall out.

I give him a growling sneer for good measure, then I use my remaining adrenaline to haul myself into the bathroom before he recovers. I lock the door and spell the lock for good measure. Then, I spell a sound barrier between us, in case he attempts to yell through the door.

I shower.

For a long while.

* * *

Snow is in bed by the time I leave the bathroom. The room is dark. His breathing is even, though not the slow rhythm of when he’s deeply asleep.

I pick out clothes, change into them in the en suite, collect books into my bag, and put on my shoes.

As I head for the door, I hear Snow sit up in his bed.

“Please don’t leave.”

He whispers it, like he’s afraid to spook me. Or perhaps he screamed himself raw hurling obscenities at me through the spelled door. Whatever the reason for it, the vulnerability in his voice makes me falter.

“I won’t touch you,” he promises. “Just…please don’t leave.”

There is no way I can sleep in this room, on those sheets, while he speaks to me with that voice.

I open the door.

“Baz, wait— I don’t know what I did, but—”

The door falls shut behind me, but I can unfortunately still hear Snow’s “I’m sorry” as I descend the stairs of the tower.

I swear to magic, if he dares say that to me again, I’ll spell him mute.


	6. ...and the One Time They Didn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I just want to know more about you.”_   
_“Too bad. I’ve taught you all I can.”_   
_Snow grunts and tugs at his curls further. “No, that’s not— Okay, you answer something for me.”_   
_I don’t recall agreeing to a round of questioning, but I’m too drained to deny him any further. “What’s the question?”_   
_“You keep silencing me. What…what are you so afraid I’m going to say?”_
> 
> * * *
> 
> Baz is avoiding Simon and refuses to think about anything except finals. Simon doesn't know how to bridge the gap between them. He's running out of options—and time.

SIMON

The fucker spelled me mute.

I absolutely hate **cat got your tongue**, and Baz _knows_ that.

I hadn’t seen him all weekend. Which was fine. He was probably holed up somewhere, studying. I couldn’t even tell if he was sleeping in our room, but he’s done that before—come in late and then left before I got up. He definitely came in at _some point_ when I wasn’t there. He put new sheets on his bed and packed up some more books. And he definitely showered—I could smell his soap.

I hadn’t seen him at meals all weekend, either. Not even at breakfast this morning before class. I started to worry if he’d even _show up_ for class. Which was stupid. Of course Basilton Grimm-Pitch wouldn’t skip class in order to avoid me. I don’t think he’s ever missed a day of school, no matter the circumstances.

He was there. He wouldn’t look at me. Which was fine. I’m used to him icing me out. It’s just…usually he’ll still spare a glance my way at some point. A sneer, an arched eyebrow. Something.

I’d take an insult. I’d take a threat. Hell, I’d take a _curse_.

He even ignored me when I made an exceptionally stupid fuck up in Elocution, which is usually his favourite thing to mock me with.

He wasn’t at lunch. We don’t share any classes after that.

By the end of the day, my magic was stinking up the classroom so bad, the teacher kicked me out. Which was fine. It meant I could wait in the hall outside Baz’s last class.

I guess he could smell me there. Not surprising. He took his sweet time leaving, letting all of the other students head out first. And then he had a nice long chin wag with the Minotaur. They don’t even like each other!

Thankfully, the Minotaur had other places to be. He walked Baz out, giving me a short greeting as he went past (looking none-too-pleased about my overflowing magic), then got out of there before he was dragged into whatever was going on between Baz and me _this time_.

Baz also looked eager to get out of there. He walked right past me. I almost reached out to grab him. Remembering the clear disgust in his eyes and voice when he said _“don’t ever touch me again” _made me freeze up.

Which was fine.

I could handle all of this. I’ve handled Baz ignoring me before. I’ve handled Baz being disgusted with me. I’ve handled not knowing where he is or if he’s eating or if he’s okay—

“Baz, wait, hang on!”

He picked up the pace. (Damn those long legs of his.) I scrambled to keep up. The halls were mostly empty by now, and the few students who were still milling about paid us no mind—this was a pretty typical Simon and Baz moment, after all. Me, chasing after him, yelling; him, looking cool as all hell, sauntering away with his nose in the air.

Which was _fine_.

Except—

Well. Except for the one thing that was really eating at me.

“Baz, come on, please.”

He wouldn’t stop.

“Can we— can we talk? For just a second?”

He wouldn’t listen.

“Baz!”

I couldn’t make him stop. I couldn’t make him talk to me. I couldn’t do a damn thing. _Which was fine_. Except…

I didn’t understand it.

What did I do? Why was he so upset with me? How had I hurt him?

“Could you just—?” My blustering wasn’t getting me anywhere, and Baz was a few steps from the front door. Soon we’d be spilling out into the courtyard with far more of an audience. He’d never talk to me there— “Baz, fuck, will you just **stop**!”

The word fell out of me, dragging all my buzzing magic out with it. Baz’s whole body went rigid as the command overtook him.

“Oh fuck, oh no,” I blurted, “I didn’t mean to, **you don’t have to**!”

Baz jerked forward from the spell’s sudden release. And then he whipped around, face twisted in a snarl. (At least he wasn’t crying this time.)(I stumbled back a step anyway.)

“I didn’t mean to,” I repeated. “I’m sorry—”

And that’s when the fucker dropped the wand from up his sleeve and spelled me mute.

* * *

That spell never lasts long, thank magic. I still hate it. **Cat got your tongue** makes your mouth feel sluggish and overly full, like you’re choking on yourself. It’s bloody awful.

I follow Baz back to our room, but I can’t _do_ anything. Unable to touch him or speak to him, what options do I have left?

I try scrawling _‘can we talk?’_ into a notebook and holding it up for him, but he won’t look up from his desk. He’s going over an essay that’s not due until the end of the week, totally focussed. I toss a pen near his head to startle him. He catches it in mid-air, then starts writing with it. (Dramatic tosser.)

He finishes soon enough. I’m sat on my bed, feeling like shit, scowling at him, and he just keeps on ignoring me. He packs up more books. And a change of clothes. I punch my mattress, and he ignores that, too.

Then that’s it. He’s gone. And I’m still choking on my apologies even once the spell wears off.

BAZ

I can't even bring myself to sleep in our room. I can't be kept up all night by Snow’s moonlit form and my foolish yearnings to crawl into his bed. Even more pressing, I can't bear to hear any further attempts by him to talk. Or—magic forbid—_apologize_.

Yes, it was a mistake. By my own making. _He_ has nothing to apologize for. The fact that he thinks he does makes me sick. Knowing he regrets his involvement is unbearable.

I do have to be in our room every now and then. I've gone seven years at this school not using the communal showers, and I'm not about to start. I also need to procure clean clothes and switch out my books. I refuse to let our disastrous escapades interfere with my hygiene or my marks.

I try to only go back when I think Snow won't be there. It doesn't always pan out.

The first time we ran into each other, he went right to ineloquent attempts at communicating, which I hastily shut down with another **cat got your tongue**.

The second time, I came in ready, spelling him silent before I had even finished closing the door behind me.

The third time, Snow bumbled in while I was there. He had precisely enough time to sputter out a "I swear I won't say anything," before I could get the spell off. "Obviously _not_," I snarled at him. It was the most I had said to him since...well. Since.

The fourth, Snow made a dramatic show of clamping his mouth shut (a heroic feat)(mouth-breather) and holding his hands up innocently. I scowled at him...and decided to take pity. (He really hates that spell.) Then, I saw a piece of paper on my desk, approximately folded in half and labelled _'Baz'_ in Snow's chicken scratch hand. I plucked it up, dropped it in the bin, and then wordlessly tossed a flame at it for good measure. "You miserable prick!" Snow growled, delivering my bed a solid kick. I retrieved the book I came for and made for the door, sure to spell him mute again as I left, just to be spiteful.

* * *

It's been nearly two weeks now. We're most of the way through exams. I'm...managing, yet I can't help a certain nervousness that Bunce might surpass me this time. I’ll beat Snow to a pulp if that happens. How dare he plague me like this?

For whatever reason—fear of my potential retaliation, perhaps—Snow hasn't dared to approach me in public since that first time. Part of me is desperate to believe he’s doing it out of consideration for my boundaries. The idea is nearly unthinkable.

That isn't to say that I'm blessed to be rid of him entirely—he still tails me from a distance, and I can always feel his eyes heavily resting on me in class. It's a miracle he manages to finish any of his exams, given his preoccupation with me is so much more potent than usual.

At least he's quiet about it.

SIMON

I'm real fucking sick of Baz casting that bloody spell on me. I want to tackle him in the courtyard and let my fists do the talking.

That won't get us anywhere. (Or maybe it would?)(Fuck if I know.)

I'm doing my best to focus on my exams, and I don't dare distract Baz from his. If I did something to mess up his marks, he’d really never forgive me.

It already seems like he’ll never forgive me. Not that I even know what I did. I’ve been mulling it over for two weeks.

Can’t touch him, can’t talk to him. My only option is leaving him another note and hoping he doesn’t set this one on fire.

‘_Baz,_

_I know I fucked up, but I don’t know how. I wish you would tell me._

_Or at least tell me how to make it better?_

— _Simon Snow’_

I place it face up on his desk, not folded this time. Maybe that’ll increase my chances of him reading it.

I go to tea (Baz isn’t there), and the library (Baz _is_ there), and then dinner (not there again). I still haven’t seen him in the dining hall much at all. I hope his mates or Cook Pritchard are sneaking food to him. He doesn’t eat enough as is.

I kill some time practising my sword work in the Wavering Wood until the drawbridge starts to come up. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. I want Baz to have as long as possible in the room before I show up and scare him away. Not that I even know if he’s there. I just…want the option to be available for him.

I’m also a bit nervous about what response my letter’s going to get.

Not really sure what to expect. I run the possibilities through my head as I make my way up Mummers. Least likely scenario: he’ll be waiting there for me and we can actually talk. Most likely: he’s spelled my bed to always be an uncomfortable temperature and rattle just as I’m falling asleep. Or something nefariously shitty like that.

I take a deep breath before pushing open the door. I’m ready to face whatever I'm met with.

Baz isn't here.

That's always been a disappointment—makes me extra anxious this time, though.

My side of the room looks untouched.

I half-expected him to trash the place. Wouldn't affect him, he's barely in here any more. (His scent is so faint these days.)

Turns out there _is_ something different on my side of the room. There, on my desk: a letter. Thick creme paper, crisply folded (in thirds)(wanker), with _'Snow'_ addressed in walnut ink.

I'm surprised nothing horrible happens when I pick it up. My mouth feels dry, my tongue all heavy—but it's not a spell, only nerves.

I open it. Baz's flawless handwriting stares back at me, all elegant slants and loops. His penmanship looks exactly the way his voice sounds.

_'Fuck off and die.'_

I'm a little ashamed to admit that I tuck the bloody thing in my breast pocket for safe keeping.

* * *

All right. So the note didn't go the way I wanted. It's still the closest I've come to getting his attention. I can't give up now.

I really don't want to distract Baz from finals. (Not distracting myself is already a lost cause.)(I don't think they'd keep The Chosen One back a year.)(At least, I bloody well hope not.) Still, I can't just hang back and do _nothing_. If I don't somehow get Baz talking to me before end of term, I'm screwed. I'll go mental if I have to spend all summer fretting. And more importantly, I have to get through to him before he spends the hols convincing himself we need to go back to being mortal enemies or something.

I'll be satisfied if he wants things to be civil and act like nothing happened between us. (Disappointed, but satisfied.) There's no way I'll let him get away with anything less, though.

Ideally?

Well.

I don't think it's crazy to expect something...more.

I think Baz likes me. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Actually, no—Baz Pitch liking me doesn’t _make sense_ at all. But it’s the only thing that seems _right_.

(I don’t think that’s wishful thinking.)

Baz liked what we were doing—I’m confident of that. He had so many opportunities to shut me down or turn against me or hurt me, all of which he never took. He never took anything at all. He gave and _gave_. And I gave it right back. And he _liked it_.

Which means something scared him. Scared him so bad, he’s sacrificing sleep and meals—during exams, no less—just so that he doesn’t have to see me.

I’ve made a list of what would scare him that bad:

**No. 1—Vampire stuff**

I hurt him when my cross hit his back. (Merlin, it’s good he had a shirt on—I don’t want to think what would have happened if it touched his skin.) I think that made him realize how close I was to finding him out. (As if I don’t already know.) He’s pulling back before I get definitive proof.

**No. 2—His feelings**

Baz is proud. Too fucking proud. After years of torturing me, it’s not exactly easy to suddenly do an about-turn on that, is it? He’d rather go on acting like he hates me than admit he’s developed a crush.

I can’t blame him. I’m finding it rather hard to believe myself—about my own feelings, I mean. The fact that I could develop a crush on Baz. Worse—the fact that I’ve been a bit mad for him for a while, really. Been too thick to realize. Won’t Baz have a good laugh about that!

Maybe that’s what he needs. I could confess the whole thing, let him crow. And then…maybe…he could realize I’m leaving him the space to do it, too. That it’ll be okay.

Yeah.

I think I’ll do that.

BAZ

Three more days. One practical today, one paper tomorrow, and one exam the day after that. Then that’s it. I’ll be done.

Done with seventh year, done dealing with Snow’s unremitting focus, done with being afraid of my own room.

Fiona will come get me the afternoon following the last day of exams. I’ll fall into a rhythm back home easily enough. There, the only dealings that might involve Snow will be in my subjugation to hearing out my father and Fiona’s plans on ridding us all of the Chosen One. The way he’s got under my skin lately, I’m nearly chomping at the bit to plot his ruin. It will be welcome.

Snow may have the decency to not confront me in front of the other students or make my limited time in the room as miserable as possible—he is _not_ so decent as to cease his stalking and disregard me completely.

We’re sitting in Elocution, working on our exams and waiting to be called aside one by one for the viva voce component. When Snow is called, he’s impertinent enough to pass by my desk on the way, dropping a piece of paper onto my test. I quickly cover it with my hand.

I unfold the note once it’s safe to do so.

— _I miss you_

That’s it.

Three little words.

Not even _the_ three little words. Yet my heart’s in my throat and my stomach’s in my feet.

How _dare_ he! During an exam!

All right, _yes_, I’ve already finished both portions of the examination and am merely killing time by perfecting my answers—but he doesn’t _know_ that.

Or perhaps he does—

That doesn’t matter!

I’m furious. And—well. And…

What?

Excited? Hopeful? Terrified?

He misses me....

I crumpled the note in my hand immediately upon reading it, but I smooth it out to give it one last glance while Snow is still off with the professor. I didn’t misread it.

He _misses_ me.

What does that mean? Is it even possible?

Surely he merely misses getting off…?

I crush the note in my hand once more as Snow trudges back in. He looks sheepish, slumping from what was clearly a poor showing of his abilities (or lack thereof). I intend to sneer at him, but when his disheartened gaze meets mine, all I can muster is impassivity.

Snow gifts me with a small tug of his mouth on one side as he slinks past me for his desk.

I spend the remaining fifteen minutes of class staring right through my test papers. All I can picture is Snow’s animalistic scrawling.

‘_I miss you’_

I should laugh. I should spit in his face. I’d like that. I could humiliate him with this, make him feel a fraction of the shame that I’ve been shackled with these past few years.

What if he’s sincere? (What if he _isn’t_?)

Either way, the fact he had the gall to broach the topic during an exam makes me yearn to smash his nose in.

SIMON

The last few minutes of the exam are painfully long. I’ve no idea if Baz even read my note—I can’t stop fretting about it.

The tests are handed in, and then we’re free to go. Baz gets to his feet, and before I know it, I’m jumping to my feet, too. I freeze when he turns his gaze to me.

It’s a short, heart-stopping moment where Baz’s cool eyes bore into me. Then he narrows them slightly, and with his mouth set in a grim line, he jerks his head in the direction of the door.

I don’t have time to process it—he’s immediately slinking away, disappearing into the stream of students all being let out. _Shit—!_ I rush after him.

Baz is one of the tallest blokes at Watford, and I could pick out the shape of him anywhere. It’s not too hard to keep track of him, even as we all flood the courtyard. It takes some effort to weave through the students all celebrating the end of the exam (some are done entirely for the year, some have more to go)(it’s a mess), but Baz makes it look easy, as usual. He slips through the crowd like oil and makes his way towards the Wavering Wood.

I don’t bother to be discreet about following Baz this time—he _did_ invite me to, after all. I need to jog to catch up, and even then, he still manages to disappear into the trees. I slow down, coming to a stop once I find a small clearing. I’m not sure which way he went....

I take a few steps forward. “Baz?”

“Here,” comes Baz’s voice—from right the fuck behind me.

It scares the pants off me. I jump around with a yelp. Which leaves me staring down the length of Baz’s wand, a scant few centimetres from my nose.

“Oi,” I grunt. I put my hands in the air and take a step back. “Watch it. You’re the one who lured me out here.”

Baz gives me a sneer sour enough it could curdle milk. “Shut up.”

I step back again, so Baz unfurls his wand arm more to keep it threateningly close to my face. “Didn’t you call me here to talk?”

“Yes,” he snaps—I can’t help but grin, “but I will be the one doing the talking, Snow.”

My grin only widens. “Did you read my note?” I step back more, and this time Baz matches it with a step forward.

“I said shut up.”

I don’t know what it says about me that I’m so excited about Baz backing me up against a tree, but _Morgana_, I’m into it.

“Baz, just listen for a sec—”

“**Cat got your tongue!”**

**__**_Fucking hell!_ I unleash a completely unsatisfying _silent_ growl and swing my fist back to hit the trunk behind me. This stupid tosser! (Okay, _yes_, I should have seen that coming, but I’m still right peeved about it.)

Baz slides his wand back up his sleeve without taking his eyes off me. His expression is twisted in a way I’ve never seen before.

“_You_ listen to _me_, Snow,” he hisses. He looms over me, only an arm’s reach away. “_Stop_ following me, stop _staring_ at me, and _stop _foisting_ notes _on me!” Baz’s voice is thrumming with something barely repressed. I don’t think it’s anger.

I can’t resist—I reach out for him. I deliberately move slow to give Baz plenty of time to intercept me. Which he does, of course. He snatches me by the wrist, fast and a bit painful. I’m not deterred.

“And _don’t touch me_!” Baz menaces.

Baz is the stronger and faster one between us, but I’m the more stubborn one. (I think. It’s a close-call.) I yank my arm back towards myself, twisting out of his grip enough to catch his hand in mine and—ignoring the flash of hostility in his eyes—I press his hand to my cheek.

I can’t speak, but I can at least mouth my words. I make sure to inject my urgency into a clear over-enunciation:

“Then touch _me_.”

Baz’s expression flickers. I can see the venom in him morph into confusion. No, not confusion—he knows exactly what I said. It’s disbelief.

I only hover my hand over Baz’s. I don’t want to actually make him feel trapped to me. I nudge my cheek into his hand further and never break eye contact.

Baz stares at me with his mouth-hanging open. He’s thoroughly gobsmacked. I’d be more chuffed if he didn’t also look a touch scared.

We’re always scaring each other. Even now, when it’s clearer and clearer that we don’t _want_ to—

I sigh when I feel Baz’s hand relax against my face. His touch is cool, even in this early summer day. It feels good…and then it feels even better when his fingertips ghost along my jaw. I let my arm fall.

He drops his brow and stares at where our skin meets. He’s marvelling at it, seems like. I soften my expression—it’s not very deliberate, I’m just melting from it all. His wide, doubtful eyes. That crease between his brows which scrunches right into his too-high nose. The dusky colour of his lips and the way they’re parted and slightly pursed, like he was about to say something else before I stunned him.

My world is narrowed to the breeze and the birdsong and his cool touch and the soft huffs of our breaths.

It feels like a spell. Like someone cast **movie magic** on us, and now we’re living in one of those romance flicks I’ve watched with Agatha. Like any second now he’s going to finally break the silence between us to whisper one of those cheesy confession lines that you feel embarrassed for liking so much. Then he’ll lean in until we’re not even a breath apart, and I’ll whisper something back. And even without my voice, it’ll be clear what three words I said. Then we’ll kiss, and the sun will break through the trees, and we’ll get a happy ending.

Baz isn’t doing any of that, though—too dumbfounded. I guess he needs more of a nudge. I turn my lips towards his touch, giving his thumb a barely-there kiss.

I can hear Baz’s breath catch. He’s spurred—he brushes his thumb along my bottom lip. It’s fucking electrifying. I kiss again. Baz gently prods my lips, so I encourage him with small, slow presses, catching his finger pad on the inside of my bottom lip when he nudges against one of my kisses in just the right way. Baz’s breath stutters when I let the tip of my tongue make contact.

And that’s how I wind up my head dipped back against the tree as Baz Pitch strokes my lips and tongue with his finger.

It’s invasive. And intimate. And really hot.

My mouth is hanging open as my breaths go shallow. I give a drag of my bottom teeth along the subtle callous of Baz’s finger tip. He presses his other fingers against my jaw curiously. His grey eyes look fogged over with uncertainty (and I think lust) as he studies every movement of his thumb against my mouth.

I thought it was only my prick that knocked Baz sideways like this, but it seems like I can stun him with a lot of things. (Maybe that’s why he’s so scared of all this—he’s not used to being confused.)

Shaking Baz up is the only way we get anywhere lately, so I decide to be bold again.

I dip forward, drawing Baz’s thumb into my mouth proper. I curl my lips around him, flatten my tongue to his thumb pad, and give a slow suck.

Baz’s brow shoots up. He’s close enough, I can see the way his pupils pinch then flare. I know that look. It’s the one he gives me before he attacks (which is something I’m going to seriously reflect on later). I gasp—Baz is suddenly closer, shoving his thumb back into my mouth before I manage to pull off all the way.

My head tilts back with the insistence of Baz’s fingers against my jaw, his thumb plunging in a second time, and then a third. I groan and let my eyes fall shut while I suck on Baz. I never have any idea what we’re doing, so I’m not about to question why I’m so turned on by Baz fucking my mouth with his finger. I just lean back and enjoy.

There’s the crack of twigs as some critter scampers past. It’s just enough of a startling sound that it breaks Baz from the spell we were under. My eyes fly open as he wrenches back from me. (I consider hunting the squirrel, or whatever the fuck it was, for revenge later.)(Though, maybe that’s more Baz’s speed.)

“Baz,” I try to say, but I’m still silenced. Merlin, I didn’t even realize. Guess the spell’s not nearly as uncomfortable when you have something better to occupy your mouth with—

“I—” Baz stumbles back. He looks so shaken. His eyes dart around as he tries to get his bearings again. “I have...revising to do....”

I soundlessly groan and roll my eyes as Baz hurries out of the forest.

All I can do is wait until my voice comes back to summon my sword and hack at trees until some of my frustration is gone.

BAZ

I have to assume that Snow isn’t being duplicitous about all of this. It wouldn’t make sense. He’s not the deceitful sort, nor is he patient enough to play such a long con.

Which means…

I can hardly bring myself to think it.

Now is not the time to be wringing my hands over what to do about Snow. Two days. There are two more days of finals to get through.

After that…well.

Perhaps we can talk.

* * *

I don’t see Snow again until dinner time on the last day of school. I’ve been avoiding the dining hall when Snow was there—I couldn’t handle being scrutinized by him while trying to sneak a few bites. And I feared he would start something despite an audience.

This evening is different. Seventh year is officially behind me. Snow can muddle my brain with his stupidity and persistence and infuriating good looks all he likes now—my grades can no longer be effected.

Snow looks properly astounded to see me waltz in with Dev and Niall. The nightmare that he is, he even jumps up from his seat. I give him a cool glance as we walk past, and otherwise ignore him.

I can feel Snow’s eyes on me throughout all of dinner. I don’t give him the satisfaction of any eye contact.

That is, until it’s time for me to take my leave. I rest my eyes on Snow—I don’t even have to work for his attention, it’s already on me. I let my gaze linger on him as long as possible, and I give him one last glance over my shoulder as the hall’s doors close behind me.

I’m too much of a coward to outright invite Snow to a conversation. I merely head down to the Catacombs and wait. I’m sure to not delve too deeply—if Snow does decide to look for me here, I don’t want him to be able to miss me.

Miss me....

‘_I miss you’_

I can’t help but feel wary about all of this. It’s too fortuitous. How could Simon Snow _miss_ me? It’s absurd....

I can’t risk having hope. It will only hurt so much worse when this all falls apart.

Surely he can’t mean it the way I want him to—need him to.

He misses fooling around. He misses having me under his thumb.

But…_oh_, but _what if_…?

I’ll need to be firm with him. I’m not strong enough to continue being enemies-with-benefits. And the concept of friends-with-benefits is even more frightening.

I can’t risk revealing the true depth of my feelings unless I’m certain he wants me. _Truly_ wants me.

And then…

I don’t know.

I’ve no idea how to accept such an improbable reality.

* * *

He doesn’t make me wait terribly long, but it is a good deal longer than I anticipated.

I point my wand down the corridor. I can smell Snow coming—which he’s clearly prepared for, given that his hands are in the air as he rounds the corner.

“I didn’t come to bother you,” he says quickly, gently.

“What, then?” I don’t lower my wand.

“Came to tell you I’m all packed.” Snow stands there, hands still up, several metres away, not encroaching on me any further. “I’m out of your hair. You can go back to the room.”

I lower my brows at him. I doubt he can see it. “You’re leaving tonight?” That’s unusual.

Snow hesitates. “I don’t want you spending another night down here,” he says evasively.

Now one of my eyebrows shoots up. “You think I’ve been sleeping in the Catacombs?”

While it’s too dim to tell from this distance, I’m certain Snow is flushing magnificently as his embarrassment overtakes him. “Y-you’re not?”

“_No_, you absolute numpty.”

“Th-then, where—?”

“With Dev and Niall!”

“_Oh_.” Snow drops his one arm and sheepishly rubs at his hair with the other. “That makes sense....”

“You’re unfathomably idiotic,” I say. It’s nearly a laugh. He’s preposterous. My whole _life_ is preposterous. I drop my arm, too.

Snow becomes emboldened by the concession. He takes two steps forward, pauses. “Then— I mean. Could we talk?”

I sag against the cold stone wall. “Sure. Let’s start with you answering a question for me.”

Excitable puppy that he is, Snow visibly perks up. “Yeah. Yeah, all right.”

“Why must you bother me the most when I’m feeling the lowest?”

I can hear him swallow. He takes a few more steps as he answers me: “I don’t mean to. I’m just curious, and then you pull back, and then I get _more_ curious, and—yeah. Baz, I just— I just want to know more about you.”

“Too bad. I’ve taught you all I can.”

Snow grunts and tugs at his curls further. “No, that’s not— Okay, you answer something for me.”

I don’t recall agreeing to a round of questioning, but I’m too drained to deny him any further. “What’s the question?”

“You keep silencing me. What…what are you so afraid I’m going to say?”

I stare at him and set my jaw. Snow treats it as a staring contest.

“It doesn’t matter,” I finally say, looking away from him. I slip my wand back into the breast pocket of my blazer. “Just say it and be done with it.”

“I like you, Baz.”

The words fall out of him in a rush of breath, like he’s been holding it this whole time. It’s so sudden and absurd, I’m not convinced I didn’t imagine it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve thought I heard a voice whispered along the drafts of the Catacombs.

“Baz,” Snow says, far more firmly. He takes a few more steps. I refuse to look at him, but if I were to, he’s close enough that I would be able to see the torch’s light flickering in his blue eyes. “_Baz_. Did you hear me? I like you.”

“I heard you.”

“A…and…?”

Snow sounds tentative. Unsure. In a way I’ve never heard before.

I flick my eyes to him and scowl. “You just want to get off.” (Why am I like this?)

“What? No,” Snow groans. “I mean. Yeah. That’s nice. I like that. I like that _with you_. If I just wanted to get off though, I could pick anyone.”

“How confident we are.”

“I don’t mean it like that.” Snow rolls his eyes. “I’m saying, out of everyone in our year, I don’t think there’s a single person I could get off with who would be half as much of a headache as you are. If that was all I was looking for, you’re probably the worst option.”

“I assure you the feeling is mutual,” I say. I attempt to be seething, but I fear I only manage cavilling.

“Yeah,” Snow laughs. “So it’s not just about that, is it? I want to touch you, Baz. Not just your arse. I mean, I want to touch you everywhere. Your hands, and your hair, and…and more than that. I want to do more than touch. I want—” Snow huffs and struggles around the words that won’t form. “I want as much of you as possible. And I think that feeling’s mutual, too.”

I swallow, struggling similarly. “You don’t know the first thing about my feelings.”

“I know a bit.” He shrugs. “Not as much as I’d like. Because you won’t talk to me.”

“You’re _confused_,” I insist. (Why? Why am I insisting—?)

“I’m not,” Snow growls. “I’ve thought about this. A lot. Baz, you—” He ruffles his hair, then moves closer, reaching for me, but when I flinch, he stops. He growls again and lets his arm fall. “_I like you_,” he repeats.

We’re magicians. We’ve studied for seven full years now the power that words and phrases contain. We’ve examined hundreds of spells—an innumerable amount, even. We’ve studied linguistics and elocution and etymological history. Our whole lives, our whole _World_, is built around words.

So then _why_, for the three words I’ve been dying to hear since I was twelve—or at least this mild approximation of them—am I so disbelieving of their validity?

SIMON

I don’t know what to do to get it through Baz’s head. He’s such a swot, yet so _fucking stupid_.

“The semester is over,” Baz says. He’s working so hard at the whole unreadable thing. “You’re going spend the holidays with the Wellbeloves and delude yourself into heterosexual bliss once more.”

“I don’t spend my summers with them, Baz,” I say. “And I…I never felt for Agatha the way I feel for you.”

Baz closes his eyes, like he’s shielding himself from me. “Then you’ll spend it with the Mage, and he can while away your days filling your head with horror stories about the Families.”

“I don’t spend the hols with him either.” I shove my hands into my hair again. “You think I don’t already know a million horror stories about the Families? It doesn’t matter—I don’t _care_. It’s probably real fucking thick of me, but I like you anyway, you git.”

Baz opens up his eyes so he can squint at me. “Then where _do_ you spend the summer?” he asks. Like that’s important right now!

“At a care home!” I yank at my hair harder. “And I’m going to spend the whole summer lying there, thinking about _you_, all right? _That’s_ what my summer’s going to be, you knob!”

It’s dark down here, and Baz is already so pale, but I can still see what little colour he’s got draining from his face. “Snow....”

“Do you get it now?” I move closer to him again, squeezing my fists at my sides, working so damn hard to hold back from touching him. “Do you want a _diagram or something_?”

Baz scoffs when I repeat his words back at him. The words that started this whole mess. Then, he’s giving me this look—this tight, _hopeful_ look.

I’m getting to him.

“And what,” he says softly, “would that diagram look like, Snow?”

“It’d look like,” I struggle, dropping my voice, “like me spending my summer with _you_.” I drop my eyes, too—Baz’s lips are slightly parted and so damn inviting. “Like us. Together. Kissing all summer long.”

I’m so close, I can _feel_ the shiver that runs through him.

“You think we can ignore decades of hostilities between our respective sides and, what?” Baz asks. “Be happy boyfriends?”

“Yeah. I think we can.”

Baz lifts his chin to peer down his nose at me—my breath catches at the way he’s staring at me, eyes hooded, practically smouldering.

“I can’t fathom how.” He’s using that honeyed voice that makes me feel hot all over. “You’ll have to teach me.”

I gulp. “Semester’s over.”

Baz snarls, and for a second I’m worried he doesn’t get that I’m teasing him—

But then his hands are on my shoulders and he’s shoving me, flipping us, pinning me up against the wall—and then I’m _extra_ worried—but he hovers his lips just a breath away from my ear and threatens: “Good thing we’ve got the summer then.” And I’m so shocked and grateful that I _growl_.

“Summer school?” I turn my lips to his ear, too. “You?”

I can’t see his expression, but I know he’s smirking. “Always. There’s no time for slacking. I take my studies very seriously, Snow.”

I’m painfully aware of the press of his fingers against my arms and the complete _lack_ of him making contact anywhere else. There’s only inches between us, in some places even less—the space feels electrified, massive. It makes me shimmer with need, my magic kicking up thickly, like it wants to fill the air between us so that we can finally _touch_—

“Good,” I tell him. I try to make my voice sound half as sexy as his does. (How does he do that?) “I’ll teach you all I can. I’ll drill you all summer long.”

Baz huffs a laugh against the side of my face—which is burning up. I can’t believe I _said_ that—

BAZ

Crowley.

I cannot believe he just said that.

SIMON

“The kinaesthetic approach, I hope,” he purrs.

Fuck, he’s so slick. (Bastard!)(I love it.)

“Yeah,” I laugh. “You know I’m shite with words.”

“Mm....” Baz tilts his face down, angling his lips towards my neck. I strain for it. (Baring your neck to a vampire is probably a bad idea, but—) “Truthfully…it’s one of the things I like about you.”

I close my eyes and thunk my head back against the wall. “Fuck, Baz....”

“But,” he says, clicking the ‘t’ in that way that makes my heart rate kick up, “I should warn you: I won’t be satisfied with just summer lessons.”

Baz is going to drive me bloody mad. He’s not touching me (not _really_), not kissing me, not giving a fucking _inch_—and Merlin, isn’t that always the way with him? With us? I want to tackle him like I usually would, but this isn’t a fight—and I promised I wouldn’t touch—but he’s _making me mental_.

“All right,” I groan. “I’ll tutor you all eighth year, too.”

He leans back. My body screams with the absence, even though there wasn’t anything tangible to miss. I’m blushing and scowling, and Baz is peering at me with this thoughtful smirk—like he still doesn’t fully believe me about any of this.

“Not enough?” I press.

“No,” Baz rumbles. “I want a degree in you, Simon Snow. I want to write dissertations on you. Get a bloody doctorate.” He’s snarling it, making it sound like a threat—a proper one, the kind that’s supposed to scare me away. “I want to study you for the rest of my _life_,” he hisses.

He’s not going to scare me away. I’m so done being scared of him.

“All right,” I say again.

Baz grimaces, showing his teeth, like that’s going to do anything other than turn me on. (Maybe it always has.) “‘All right’?”

“Yeah.” I reach my hand up to touch his face. I’m still not sure if I’m allowed…I hover it near his cheek. “Yeah, Baz. Let’s try that. I want that.”

Baz exhales, all shaky like. Then he nudges his face into my hand, and every cell in my body screams _‘finally’_.

I press my fingers against the cool skin of his cheek and jaw. Baz turns his face into it more, catching his teeth on the meat of my thumb.

I’m not scared. Down here, in the Catacombs, with a vampire’s teeth dragging down the inside of my wrist, his tongue pushing against my pulse—I’m not scared.

“Baz,” I groan. “Does this mean I can touch you now?”

“_Yes_.”

Before he’s even done hissing it, I’m shoving forward, bursting out of his hold and tackling him the way I’ve been dying to.

BAZ

Simon Snow is on me, clumsy and frenetic, unable to decide if he wants to push or pull. He’s shoved his one hand into my hair and the other is digging into my waist. I stumble back with the sudden force of his passion, which helps him decide his course—he urges me back and back until I’m hitting into the opposite wall. The stone bricks are uncomfortable, but it could be worse—we could be deeper in, where the walls are lined with skulls instead. A hell of a place for a first kiss.

And isn’t that exactly what this is.

Snow smashes his mouth to mine the second he has me pinned. It starts off rough and desperate. I’ve never kissed anyone before—I’ve no idea what I’m doing. I don’t even know how to catch my breath like this. Perhaps it’s not even possible. Perhaps Simon Snow will leave me breathless for the rest of my life. (I certainly hope so.)

I decide to mirror Snow’s hold on me: one hand on his waist, the other in his hair. Oh, Morgana, his _hair_. I’ve yearned to touch his curls for so many years. There’s nothing special about the sensation, yet my heart is on fire with it.

Snow eases up soon enough, no longer crushing me between the wall and his equally unrelenting mouth. He thoroughly switches tactics—his kisses turn long and soft and brimming with a warmth that I can only hope is affection.

He wants me…he _likes_ me.

I can’t begin to understand it, but it’s becoming increasingly evident that perhaps I don’t _need_ to.

Simon Snow is kissing me. He’s running his fingers through my hair. He’s pressing his broad body up against mine, searing me with his heat. He’s pouring low sounds and soft breaths into my mouth. He’s doing something _absolutely incredible_ with his chin—

I hum when Snow flicks open the button of my blazer, and I moan when he starts rubbing the back of his hand in small circles on my stomach. I’m melting and he’s grinning, enough so that he has to break the kiss. I use the opportunity to kiss the mole on his cheek like I’ve wanted to do since I was twelve. Then I keep kissing, trailing along his jaw and neck, finding all the spots I’ve mapped in my mind countless times. Snow rumbles a soft noise that might be my name—I’ve the audacity to hope so, at least.

And then we’re kissing again. Touching cheeks and hair, shoulders and backs and waists. Touching in the ways we’ve been holding back from for all this time.

We kiss until the percussive thrum of his heartbeat is too much for me to bear.

I pull away from his lips, so Snow sets on exploring my neck instead. At some point, his fingers worked their way between the buttons of my shirt, and it’s all such a beautiful sensory overload.

“Snow.” My voice is thready. I clear my throat. "Where's your cross?"

He shrugs. While necking me, the little heathen. "I gave it back to Agatha.”

"Why?"

Snow leans back enough to look at me. "I don't need it any more.”

"I'm a _vampire_." It just falls out of me. I can’t believe this incurable idiot—

Snow cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. "Are you going to bite me?"

"_No_."

"So it's fine."

“Snow,” I groan.

He laughs then. “Baz,”—he pushes his hands into my hair and runs his touch along my scalp—“I’ve known you’re a vampire since fifth year.”

“Yes, you’ve always been quite hostile about it.”

Snow’s touch falters. I use the moment to push him away from me. “Sorry,” he blurts, and then he looks faintly worried, causing him to bluster further. “It’s not— I’m not going to tell anyone.”

I sigh and slip out from between him and the wall. Snow catches my sleeve. Crowley. It must have taken all of his willpower not to grab me these past few weeks. He’s right back to his brutish tactics.

“Baz, wait—”

“Oh, give it a rest.” I bat his hand away. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Snow’s eyes light up as realization dawns on him. “Can I—”

“Whatever you’re about to say, I assure you the answer is: _absolutely the fuck not_.”

* * *

I make quick work of drinking. When I return to Snow, he’s leaned up against the wall, exactly where I left him. He lights up as I approach—my heart flutters.

How improbable…that he could look at me like _that._

Once I approach, Snow slides one hand into my own and the other curls around the back of my neck. He pulls me down into a kiss. My saliva is an antiseptic, and I cast a cleaning spell to be safe, but Snow doesn’t _know_ that. He’s merely that stupid and desperate to kiss me.

Aleister Crowley, I’m living a charmed life.

* * *

Somehow, we manage to make it back up to our room, sneaking around so no one will see us so wrapped up in each other. It’s all a bit of a blur. A blur of lips and hands and tongue and _Simon Simon Simon_—

He crowds me up against the door the second it’s closed and ravages my neck. I loll my head the other way, breath stuttering. Snow is earnest in his suckling, intent on bruising me. I’m not sure if he can. I’m more than happy to let him try.

Our hands roam along each other’s bodies, fumbling, eager, yet desperate to savour it. There’s no rush. We have all night. We have all _summer_. We have…

“_Ohh_,” I moan when Simon pops off my neck to kiss under my ear, then my jaw, then my mouth.

My body is brimming with blood and lust. I tug Snow’s bottom lip between my teeth and push his jacket over his shoulders.

_There’s no rush_, I remind myself.

Snow scrabbles at his tie, breaking our kiss so that he can rip it off over his head, then immediately crashes his mouth back to mine. I grunt a complaint at the force of it, which is entirely ineffectual because the menace knows I don’t give a damn.

These kisses are sloppy and inelegant and perfect. They’re not at all the languorous slide of lips and tongues like when we were in the Catacombs. This isn’t Snow pouring confessions into my mouth—it’s his declaration of aching desire.

I’m half-hard from just this. The press of Snow’s hips to mine reveals his own arousal. We echo each other’s sounds of pleasure into the kiss. I’m dizzy with it—the hunger and the breathlessness and the weight of Simon Snow’s growing erection against the top of my thigh.

Divesting each other of our clothes is a disjointed mess. I don’t even know when or how my jacket came off. Our hands knock together as we both work on Snow’s shirt while refusing to stop snogging. Once that’s done, Snow nearly chokes me with my own tie, and it seems he would rather tear all the buttons off my shirt than deal with them properly.

I break our kiss, slapping his hands away. “You’re a barbarian.”

Snow growls and attacks my neck and belt instead, as if my trembling fingers weren’t having a hard enough time dealing with the buttons. (Maybe he _should_ just tear the bloody thing off—)

“_Baz_,” he sighs, leaning back once I’ve finally got my shirt open all the way. “Crowley. Look at you.”

Snow abandons his attempts with my belt to instead slide his hands up the entire length of my torso. I lean my head against the door and relish in the sensations of Snow’s hot hands travelling along me, exploring every inch with feverish reverence. I shiver, even though I’m the furthest thing from cold. Upon reaching my shoulders, he shoves my shirt down my arms, and I rid myself of it the rest of the way.

“Enjoying yourself?” I ask as Snow’s hands fondle along my pectorals.

“_Yeah._” He says it with a growl that goes straight to my groin. Snow draws a low hum out of me by swiping his thumbs over my nipples. “You’re so fucking fit,” he complains.

I stare at him—my thoughts feel disjointed, mind on the blink from the peculiar sensation of having my nipples played with. I never found it a particularly stimulating area—until now. “Is that a problem?” I ask.

“Hell no.”

SIMON

It’s stupid I haven’t seen Baz shirtless before. Suddenly all those days of watching him out on the pitch make a lot more sense—that hot twist in my gut when he lifted his shirt to wipe his face was definitely not what I thought it was. (What _did_ I think it was? Jealousy?)(No—I just didn’t think about it at all, did I?)

I get distracted for a moment. I can so clearly picture that slash of Baz’s pale skin between the deep purples of his uniform. The movement of his belly, glistening with sun and sweat, as he worked to catch his breath.

I don’t have to just imagine it any more—it’s right in front of me. Baz is lean and sharp, with a nice definition to his pecs that makes them good for groping. His nipples are dusky and peaking (because of _me_), and his skin is smooth porcelain. There’s a gentle slope of his stomach that leads my eyes down to follow the hint of dark hair, before it disappears beneath his waistband. It’s like every piece of him is designed to turn me on.

Baz is a bloody work of art, is what I’m saying.

He hums a long note of pleasure, even though I’m not doing much more than ogling. I flick my eyes back up to his face to find him giving me a look that makes my arse clench. _Fuck me—_his eyes are hooded and there’s a devilish sort of smirk along his well-kissed lips. As if I needed any further reasons to be painfully aroused by him.

Baz rolls his body into my touch. “Are you planning on only eye-fucking me all night?”

“No,” I blurt. Really wish I had something sexier for a response, but there it is.

Baz’s grin spreads. “Prove it.”

Snakes alive—I love this arsehole.

I shove my mouth against his, immediately slipping my tongue inside. Baz moans and digs his fingers into my waist, pulling me closer, so I press him against the door with my weight—it feels absolutely incredible to finally be skin-against-skin with him. He’s cold and _perfect_. Like diving into a pool on a hot summer day. I groan in relief.

Baz drags his nails up my back. It’s a sharp sort of pleasure that makes me break away from the kiss to gasp. Baz isn’t having that, though. He comes for my mouth, tongue first. I’m more than thrilled to let him back in. He explores my mouth the way I showed him, while dragging his nails down my back this time—and down more, until his fingers dip into the band of my trousers.

Somehow, through all the snogging and panting, we manage to get both of our belts undone. Baz’s hands are shaking worse than mine are, yet he’s still more nimble than me. I leave a trail of kisses along Baz’s collarbone. He nudges his nose against my temple, heavy breaths ruffling my hair while he plucks at my flies after helping me open his own.

“Baz,” I groan into the slope of his neck. I tug at his trousers impatiently. “Can I…?”

“You _may_,” he says into my ear. “Touch me, Snow. Don’t ever stop touching me.”

That yanks a wild sound out of me. I shove my hands at Baz’s crotch and tug him out of his pants. _Fuck_. I’m touching Baz cock.... It’s more terrifying this time because I’m not quite as muddled with lust, but damn if it isn’t thrilling.

“_Ah_…yes…,” Baz sighs before dipping his head down to kiss at my neck.

I hang my head back, letting Baz do anything he wants with his mouth, while giving his cock an experimental squeeze. Baz growls against my skin (which is alarmingly sexy).

Merlin…he’s so much warmer here. I’m not sure what the perfect size for a dick is—whatever it is, though, I think Baz has got it. He fits in my hand so well. It doesn’t feel like when I hold myself. I’m not sure what the difference is, but I like it.

I stroke him loosely, trying to figure out the angle. He huffs and nips gently at my shoulder in response. Encouraged, I keep doing it, base to tip, until I find a rhythm he likes—when his hips start rocking with my movements, that’s when I know.

“Oh, Snow…fuck…nnn, _good_….”

“Yeah? You like that?” I feel bolder with his enthusiasm. I glide my palm over his head to smear the precome collecting there—Baz’s hips stutter.

“I believe…that’s rather evident.” Baz latches his lips to my neck and pulls a long moan out of me as he sucks hard.

“_Fuck, Baz_.” I shove closer, growing hungrier every second. His sounds and mouth and scent and the weight of his dick in my hand—everything about Baz makes me wild. “Please—”

The next thing I know, I’m being flipped. The room spins as Baz wheels us around, slamming me up against the door instead.

I groan, only half in complaint, and then when Baz flashes me a dark grin, another sound falls out of me, though this one’s far closer to a whimper.

“Don’t stop stroking me,” Baz orders. His voice is dark and sweet and dangerous.

“I won’t,” I promise. I give him a quick tug to prove it, and then go back to my loose rhythm.

“Good boy.” He hisses it against my lips. Baz’s cool hands slide down, down, _down_.... “I’m going to take out your cock now, Snow.”

I thunk my head against the door. “Fuck. Yeah. _Yes_. Please.”

Baz laves at my exposed throat, and as if that isn’t enough for my world to go all wonky, he’s then palming me through my pants.

Everything we’ve done, and this is the first time he’s ever touched me there. It’s a relief and a tease all at once. I shove my hips against his hand and gasp.

“Ohhnn, _Ba-az_....”

BAZ

I absolutely revel in all the ways I can get Snow to say my name. A few squeezes to his clothed erection and he’s warbling for me. What a magnificent disaster he is.

I torture Snow by only tugging him through his pants for a bit longer. He squirms and gives my own erection an impatient jostling.

“Baz, c’mon, please—”

“Mmm, _‘please’_ what?”

“Take it out,” he groans. “I need it—”

“You’re lucky I’m feeling charitable,” I purr into that soft spot under the curve of his jaw.

“Yeah, you’re a real—_fuck_—!” Snow sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when my fingers dip inside his pants to draw him out. Then he groans out a “_thank magic_,” all the air whooshing out of him.

I pepper his neck with kisses as best I can given I’m grinning. He’s just so _easy_—his eyes are closed, his face and neck flushed, and he’s already lost the ability to wank me properly. I don’t mind yet—for now, I’m happy to glory in the feel of Simon Snow’s cock in my grasp.

I’ve spent endless nights wallowing in fantasies of jerking Snow off. Among other things, of course, but a manic wank against the door to our room has always been quite high on the list. I imagined it would manifest in the form of fury boiling over into something the Anathema wouldn’t punish us for. I imagined it as Snow pining me to the wall with his face twisted into a snarl as we violently pulled each other to completion. I imagined it as me pinning him, mocking him for the tent in his pants, and making him wank each of us. Oh, I imagined it as _so_ many, many things—

Never did I let myself imagine it like this: his free hand in my hair, cradling me to his neck, letting my lips feel every reverberation as he croons my name so adoringly.

“Baz, oh, hnn, fuck, that’s—Baz, yeah, yeah, good, Baz, fuck, please—”

“Tell me more, you inarticulate fuck,” I murmur against his cheek.

Snow barks out a sound of agitation that very quickly melts into a laugh. “Fuck you, you _jerk_,” he lilts sweetly and nudges his face towards mine. “You awful prick,” he says with his lips brushing against my own.

“Ah,”—I kiss him—“yet it seems you rather like my awful prick.”

“Hm. Not decided yet.” Snow sucks on my bottom lip. His thumb rubs circles along my slit, causing me to shudder and moan into his mouth. “Can’t see how your prick could be any more entertaining than my own.”

I pin Snow’s hips to the door with my free hand and loom over him. “How about I convince you?”

“Like to see you try, Pitch.” Little gremlin, he’s grinning at me cheekily.

“Haven’t you learned by now, Snow?” I push my hips forward until I feel our lengths slotting alongside each other. We both moan at it, and I need to take a moment to gather my thoughts before I can continue. “I’m better than you at everything.”

“Haven’t _you_ learned?” Snow thrusts his hips despite my hold. His thick fingers tangle around mine, trapping both of our cocks side by side between our hands. “I’m a quick study for these things.”

“Kinaesthetic things?” I say, arching an eyebrow at him. “Gay things?”

Snow smirks. “_You_ things.”

I rumble deep in my chest and press my mouth to Snow’s. He rumbles in return while kissing me again and again, all lips and gasps.

It’s something out of my deepest, most repressed dreams to have Snow like this, with his hot, languorous kisses as we coax out the pleasure from each other’s bodies. Our fingers brush as we slide our hands along the joining of our erections. It’s bloody miraculous. Even the too-dry drag of his grasp is enough to leave me in breathless disarray.

As a testament to my own abilities, Snow is breathless as well. He breaks our kiss, but his fingers curl around the back of my neck possessively, not letting me pull away. (As if I would.)

I lean my forehead to his. We simply breath each other’s sighs while our hips and hands rock in tandem.

“Always been…my favourite subject,” Snow moans. My chest clenches.

“What is?” I prod. Because I’m needy and difficult.

“_You_, Baz. Always you.”

I kiss him again, hard. What else am I to do? How else could I possibly respond to such a thing? There are no words to express the ache and bloom of every cell in my body at such a sentiment from him.

I’m first to break the kiss this time. We use the opportunity to look down at our union. Snow’s prick is hotter than mine and flushed darker. I can feel every throb of his pulse, can see it in his more visible veins. I’ve no idea whether the eroticism of that is solely due to my vampirism, and I can’t be arsed to care. He looks delicious. I might very well come soon, but there is no way I’m letting Snow off the hook tonight before I taste his cock.

“Aw, fuck, Baz.” Snow’s rhythm wavers as he delights in the sight of us. “Incredible....”

“It is a rather good view, isn’t it?”

“Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And, well, he’s right. None of the porn I subsisted upon during those long summers away from Snow could compare to having the real thing right in front of me.

I have to immediately update my assessment, however—Snow pulls his hand away from our pricks to give a wet swipe of the flat of his tongue along his palm, before going right back to wanking me—and _that_ is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

“You foul miscreant,” I snarl.

Snow flashes me an impish grin. “You love it.” He gives me a more purposeful tug with his wet hand, like it’s a challenge.

“I’m merely impressed,” I begin haltingly, “that we’ve managed to uncover so many things”—Snow wrenches a groan out of me with an expert twist of his wrist—“that filthy mouth of yours is good for.”

Snow cants his head against the door, taunting me with the long line of his neck and the swell of his freckled chest with each heavy breath. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip while fixing a gaze upon me that makes my bollocks hike up. “Like snogging?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I admit. I press my hand away from his hip, feeling Snow up the entire way to his mouth—he arches into it. “And wetting fingers.” I push my middle and forefinger to Snow’s parted lips. He spares no time in granting me entry.

Snow holds my gaze as I fuck my fingers into his mouth. Crowley, I love that tongue. The poor sod can’t form a sentence to save his life, but he’s masterful with it in every other way.

The whole thing is devastatingly hot. I have half the mind to be concerned about how my orgasm is becoming increasingly imminent, but I don’t think it’s something to worry about. The movements of Snow’s hips and hand are growing more unsteady, all of his muscles taut as he strains into each shiver of pleasure. His eyes eventually flutter closed as my various ministrations to his cock and mouth drive him ever closer.

A mess of noises fall out of Snow as he sucks and laps at my fingers. Eventually my desire to violate his mouth further is overtaken by my desire to hear his babbling bliss. Snow gasps as I withdraw my sloppy hand.

“_Merlin_,” Snow groans as I lap up the line of drool on his chin, and then I tongue him deeply. He groans again when I pull back.

“You’re trembling.” My voice comes out like a coo, only partially to tease him—I’m rather disgustingly enchanted by his state.

“Not…quite built for endurance yet.” Snow ruts against me more urgently. “I’ve not spent all my free…free time wanking, like you—_ahh_—apparently have done.”

I give a short laugh at that. “Not to worry. I’ve seen you fight—I know what kind of stamina you’re capable of. But for now....” I lean back from Snow and wipe my well-sucked fingers along the heads of our cocks—not that they need much lubrication, with how generously we’re producing precome.

“Ah…Baz—”

I angle back further, slipping from Snow’s grip. I’m sure to take a moment to enjoy the lovely tenor of his pitiful moan.

“Baz, please, I’ll die if you don’t let me come—”

“Hush.” Our erections need no help sticking out at full attention, parallel to the floor. I take Snow’s into both of my hands to guide him and simply use a roll of my hips to bring my tip into contact with his own. “I’m doing you a favour, you ingrate. Stay still.”

Snow stares down at us, mouth hanging open (more than usual). He’s obedient, unmoving as I kiss my cock to his and begin working my fingers along him in just the right manner....

It hadn’t escaped my notice that Snow’s foreskin moves in a mesmerizing way with each tug to his length. I’m able to glide the skin over his head with each stroke. And then, with only a bit of coaxing....

“Wh-what the fuck,” Snow blurts. “What are you—?”

I release a shaky note of triumph—I guide Snow’s foreskin over his head and onto my own, the wetness between us making it all the easier. With each shallow pump of my hands, I slick the skin over our heads, then off, then over again.

“_Jesus Christ_,” Snow whimpers. (I hate that I love his horrible Normal curses.) “How—? What—? How do you _think_ of this stuff?”

“I told you.” My voice quivers as much as his does. “I take my studies over the summer quite seriously.”

Snow laughs, incredulous. “You spend all summer watching porn?”

“Not _all_ summer.”

Snow’s smile is a sparkling, unsteady thing—he’s too caught up in the pleasure that keeps stealing his breath away to grin too widely. “You’re ridiculous,” he moans. “This is ridiculous. Why—why is it so _hot_?”

I’m smiling, too. “Does it matter?” I don’t bother to question these things any more—I’ve come to terms with my disturbed fantasies, and this doesn’t even come close.

“Nope,” Snow grunts, “nope, no, it doesn’t.” He reaches out with shaky, bumbling hands, pawing at my erection. “Fucking seven hells, Baz—”

A laugh tumbles out of me now. Snow’s right—all of this _is_ ridiculous. The Chosen One and the Heir of House Pitch, so fervid with pent up desire that they’ve resorted to docking up against the door of their room, too addled to even undress fully or get comfortable elsewhere.

“You feel amazing,” I tell Snow. It seems all he can do is curse and give me a desperate look in return. “So hard, so eager.”

Snow resounds a dark note in the space between us as he reaches for my mouth with his own. We crane our necks to kiss, even though we can hardly manage much more than moans and shallow attempts at breathing. We wank each other with both hands—the head of my cock is snuggled so sweetly in Snow’s foreskin with each pull.

I can feel the throb of him become more promising. His hands on me are erratic. It’s thrilling to witness him falling apart by my touch.

“Baz, oh, oh Merlin, oh fuck—” he blathers. Snow knocks his forehead against mine, no longer able to even sloppily kiss. “Gonna explode—”

“Good. Do it.” We tilt our pressed heads down to look. I think Snow’s as excited to see himself finish as I am. “Go on, Snow. Come on me.”

Snow whimpers, his rough hands scrambling at my prick with misdirected urgency, given I’m the one controlling his pleasure. I don’t yet (_yet!_) know the intricacies of what Snow appreciates most, but he seems rather keen at having his frenulum rubbed, so I’m sure to caress my fingers there with each rock of my hands. He doesn’t need anything more complicated than that—Snow rumbles out a whole musical movement as his orgasm begins flooding his senses.

I get tunnel vision at the sight. He’s a lovely shade of desperate, only further highlighted by the paleness of my fingers wrapped around him. Snow’s cock pulses as every wave of ecstasy forces out another gleaming rope of ejaculate. It splatters against my head, drawing tremulous moans from me with each splash of heat.

“Oh, oh _fuck_, Baz, yeah, _yeah_,” Snow babbles, voice laced with euphoria. “Fuck, that’s_ so hot—_”

“So hot,” I agree stupidly. I’m too dazed from the sight of Snow coming on my cock to manage anything remotely inspired.

My passion ratchets upwards as Snow shoves his length at mine, smearing his come along all of me. His frantic prattling morphs into husky purrs as he winds down, even though I’m still hungrily milking him. I’m delirious for each drop, trying to catch it all with my fingers and erection—Snow is more than happy to assist. And then, oh, and _then_—

SIMON

Baz is moaning out these ragged sounds with each stroke. I’m bleary and softening and all muddled from my orgasm, but I’m not about to give Baz anything to complain about. I lube up my hands with my come and use it to pull Baz off.

His voice cracks when he tries to say my name in warning (my last name, unfortunately). Baz curls towards me, thudding his forehead to my shoulder as chills of pleasure race down his spine.

I’m loose-limbed, and all I can smell is Baz’s hair, and each of his pathetic sounds drip from my head to my toes, making me syrupy and dumb. Baz is coming in my arms, in my hands, _on_ my hands, on my dick. It’s intoxicating.

Throughout his orgasm, I murmur in his ear all the hazy thoughts that float through my head: “Yeah, come on, Baz, shoot it all over me, _good_, Baz, good, please, God, make me crazy, listen to you, sound so good, babe, just like that, keep moaning for me....”

His noises are soft and high as he trembles against me. Lovely, he’s so fucking lovely....

We’re left with a hell of a sticky mess—I’ve no idea whose come is whose any more. Not that it matters. Which makes a laugh bubble up in me.

Baz whines into my shoulder, the last of his pleasure ebbing away. “The fuck…are you…laughing at…?”

“Sorry,” I say, not sounding sorry at all. I think I probably sound a bit unhinged, really. I don’t care. It’s a disaster—we’re a disaster—and it’s bloody perfect, innit? All stupid and mucked up together—what could be better than that? “‘M just happy.”

Baz peels himself off me to give me a squinty look. I kiss him, and then again, because he’s still looking too sceptical. He sighs—he’s not half as hazy as I was after finishing (I’m still feeling warm and wobbly), but at least he’s not closing off. (He’s not going to do that any more, right?)

We both look down at the scene between us. Baz frowns.

“Shower?” I suggest.

“Merlin, _yes._”

We finally push away from the damn door and work on getting our trousers and pants off, trying not to spread the mess around too much. It’s the least graceful I’ve ever seen Baz, I think. He’s scowling and muttering to himself, and I can’t stop grinning.

“You can spell it away later,” I say.

“_Still_,” he harrumphs.

Once we’re both starkers, I tail Baz to the bathroom. He washes his hands even though we’re about to take a shower—I roll my eyes (and grin some more) and turn on the water. I step in without giving it time to warm up much. I rinse off my hands and offer one to Baz. He gives me a lift of his eyebrow in response.

“Well, come on.” I shake my hand. “Get in.”

I can see Baz’s jaw tense. I’m about to get agitated at him, but then he steps over the side of the tub to join me. (Though he ignores my hand.)

“Cold,” he hisses, backing away from the water’s spray like a disgruntled cat.

My cheeks hurt from all this grinning. I adjust the tap. “I bet you like your showers scalding, yeah? There, that all right?”

Baz grunts and moves closer. “Getting there.” He’s all huddled in on himself. He looks sheepish. I’ve never seen Baz look _sheepish_ before.

I tug him closer to the warming water and wrap my arms around him—he tenses. “Better, yeah?” He grunts again, so I pinch his waist. “Don’t be a git.”

“That’s my defining characteristic,” he drones.

I kiss his cheek. “No, it’s not,” I say against his cool skin. The tension starts melting out of him—maybe because the water’s finally nice and hot.

We work on getting clean. It’s hard to believe I’m showering with Baz. I should probably be more embarrassed about this, except I can’t drum it up. It’s just…nice. It’s really fucking nice. Even though Baz is being standoffish and the water’s too hot.

It’s intimate.

Not tender, but almost.

I can’t stop myself from watching Baz the entire time. I guess that’s not surprising. Seeing him all wet, droplets rolling down his body—it’s right mesmerizing. He dips his head back under the spray to soak his hair, and he’s so bloody exquisite that it _hurts_.

He huffs at me as I crowd him under the water. There’s nothing for it, I have to touch him, have to hold him. Baz stares down his nose at me, looking wary again. The water’s bouncing off him and hitting me in the face—I have to close an eye against it, which is what makes Baz finally quirk a grin at me.

“What are you doing, you numpty?” Baz’s voice isn’t grumpy at all when he says it. He slides both of his wet hands into my hair, and I let him dip my head back as he tugs it.

“Just watching you wasn’t enough any more,” I tell him.

Baz exhales, like he isn’t sure if he should scoff or sigh, so I put my hands in his hair too and drag him down to kiss me before he says something stupid. (I’m sure he’s already thinking something stupid.)

I turn us sideways and nudge Baz up against the tile wall. He makes a complaint against my lips—the tiles must be cold. He pulls me closer even so.

BAZ

I’ve been kissing Snow in the shower for Chomsky knows how long. It’s sublime…heavenly. Perhaps I’m dead and was granted access to heaven despite everything. Or maybe I’m alive (as alive as I ever am) and this is simply the universe’s sole gift to me before it all goes to shit.

It’s hard to consider the disastrous possibilities in too much depth when Snow’s circling the back of his hand along my stomach and doing that lovely thing with his chin. I skim my touch up and down his back and sides, relishing in his murmurs of appreciation against my lips.

I don’t know how I’m allowed to have this…but I _do_. I have him, here, in my arms, sharing a post-coital shower.

Well, not post-coital as per the strict definition. Perhaps _pre_-coital—_Crowley_, I hope so.

I can’t fathom how, but I do manage to stop kissing Simon Snow and get us properly washing up again.

“Can I help?” he asks as I lather shampoo into my hair.

“With washing my hair?” I turned away from him upon starting, and I don’t spare him a glance now.

“Yeah.”

“As if I would trust you with that,” I snap, which makes Snow grunt but acquiesce.

It’s not that I don’t _want_ him to—it’s that I want it too much. I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I would likely cry, and I’ve already embarrassed myself in front of Snow once in that regard—which is enough for a lifetime.

Snow is—predictably—finished washing before me. He occupies himself by littering my neck and shoulders with kisses wherever I’m not soapy. He’s _giddy_, which is wholly incomprehensible. And infectious. I fear the stares I keep shooting him are far too soft.

I press him back with my fingertips to his chest. “You’re distracting. Get out if you’re finished.”

“Just hurry up,” he says.

“I have more to do.” I prod him again. “Go. I’ll join you in twenty minutes.”

Snow’s dismay is comical. “Twenty minutes!” he baulks.

“Oh, please,” I cluck at him. “I’ve waited for you for seven years, you can handle twenty minutes.”

The glow of realisation on Snow’s face is what alerts me to the true weight of my confession.

His slack mouth slowly breaks out into a grin. “_Fuck_, Baz....”

“Shut up,” I hiss. I retreat under the spray and wash an area that’s already clean.

Snow presses himself to my back, resting one hand on my waist and reaching the other around to rub my stomach in that infuriatingly wonderful way.

“Don’t take too long,” he murmurs near my ear. “There’s a lot of lost time to make up for.”

And then he’s gone, the vile nymph.

* * *

I do a thorough job of cleaning up in preparation for the main event. Though, knowing my luck, Snow has probably fallen asleep and forgotten all about the heated promise he tortured me with before departing.

I exit the en suite after sufficiently drying off, my hair pushed back and hanging damp behind my ears. I’m clad only in a towel, which is laughably nerve-racking after everything that’s happened.

Snow clearly feels no such attachment to modesty: he’s lounging back on my bed, completely naked. The room is darker now, but the moon is full and bright in the sky, illuminating Snow in a painfully divine fashion. For a moment, I assume he really _is_ sleeping, but then he turns a crooked grin my way.

“Took you long enough.” Snow sluggishly hangs his legs off the side of the bed and stands.

“I see you used the time well,” I drawl, dragging my eyes down his naked form.

Snow ruffles his hair—it’s mostly dry and very mussed. I intend to muss it more. “Figured there was no point in getting dressed.”

I swallow. “Evidently.”

Snow’s still giving me that lopsided smile. He reaches for me, my hips, and hooks his fingers in my towel. “Yeah. So. You’re overdressed.”

“Your entire wardrobe consists of ratty tees and trackies, Snow—everyone is always overdressed compared to you.”

Snow leans up for my mouth and mutters an endearing “shut up, Baz,” before kissing me.

I let Snow’s fingers dislodge my towel. We already left our clothes all about the floor, so I assure myself adding one more article to the mess is nothing to fret over.

Snow gifts me a wonderful sound as I suckle on his bottom lip.

I want to suck something else.

Snow harrumphs when I pull back. I sit on the edge of the bed and take his hip into my hand. “What—?” he grumbles. I ignore him, tugging him by the hips until he’s standing in front of me, between my knees.

His cock is right there, flaccid and draped becomingly over his sack. I lick my lips—Snow’s breath catches. A visible twitch goes through him, his penis eager to spring to life from merely the suggestion of what I intend to do.

“Baz....”

I gather my nerve, then dip my head forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to Simon Snow’s soft cock. His breath is already shaky. I lay more wet kisses, exploring his expanding length with only my lips. I can feel the thrum of his pulse, his blood eagerly rushing to fill him.

He tastes like nothing and smells like school-issued soap. There’s only the faintest hint of musk. I can’t abide by that. I want Snow thick with arousal—I want his scent and his taste in my nose and mouth and throat.

“Ohhhh, Baz....”

I drag my lips down to his head and curl my tongue under him, guiding him into my mouth. Snow emits a guttural noise and jerks forward. I hold his hips fast—the last thing we need is him shoving into my mouth in such a way that my fangs drop. (I don’t _think_ they’ll drop, but—) Snow breathes harder and clutches my wrists in his hands as a way of bracing himself. So well behaved....

Snow is staring down at me, mouth hanging open, skin flushed. He whimpers when I glance up at him—I wonder how I look with my cheeks hollowed out as I give the head of Snow’s cock a tight suck.

“Sweet merciful _fuck,_” Snow keens.

I hum my approval around his head before pushing forwards along him, pulling more of Snow into my mouth. I can hear his pulse, and there’s a vein pumping hard against my tongue. I close my eyes and do my best to keep my breathing even. My mouth is pooling, but my gums aren’t terribly itchy—I think I’m more aroused than bloodthirsty. The sensation of Snow becoming fully engorged in my mouth is unlike anything I could have imagined.

My grasp on Snow’s hips stays firm, and his grasp around my wrists stays tight in turn. I work my mouth along just this first third or so of him—I’m not quite daring enough to go further. I don’t know what will happen with my fangs if I feel him too far back, and now isn’t a good time to find out. Besides, Snow’s rasping moans indicate that he’s well pleasured as is. I suck at him while drawing off, which leaves a trail of Snow’s precome along my tongue. I groan—it’s mild, warm, and almost buttery.

“Baz, _Baz_,” Snow pants. “It’s— You’re— Oh God, Baz.”

He’s pitifully hard now. And with that, his precome flows more freely. I rub my thumbs in circles over his trembling hips and mimic the movement with my tongue along his leaking slit. I can feel the full effect of the shivers that run through Snow’s body.

I find a slow pattern to work with: I press my mouth over Snow’s crown, teasing his frenulum with my tongue as I go, then suck my way back until only his slit is at my parted lips, where I can lap up his beading wetness.

There’s the building scent of something so uniquely Simon—a rich, fatty headiness that mixes so well with the taste of him. All this, in tandem with the gruff babbling he’s emanating, creates an assault to my senses that leaves my own erection throbbing.

“_Baz_,” Snow warbles. He removes a hand from my wrist, instead sliding it into my hair.

I open my eyes to gaze up at him. My chest constricts at the sight—Snow looks dazed, breathless, his eyebrows drawn up and his cheeks all ruddy.

He’s beautiful.

"You're beautiful,” he says.

I’m so startled by it, I pop my mouth off of him. I swallow all the excess saliva and hope I don’t look quite as debauched as I feel. "Because I'm sucking your cock?" I say.

“What?” Snow blinks a few times, struggling to follow even this simple conversation. "No. Because you _are_.”

I give him a faintly haughty look, then slip my lips over his prick.

Snow croaks out a failed attempt at speech. On his second try, he manages it: “Why do you find that so hard to believe?” His fingers in my hair are shaking. “You're more arrogant than that."

I slide off him again. The way he’s looking at me and touching me…it makes me weak. "It's too good to be true,” I admit.

Snow just grins. "I'll prove it to you all summer."

I loosen my grip on his hips and lean back—I can’t have this conversation with his dick in my face. (I’m not entirely sure why we’re having a _conversation_ at all, when we could be shagging. Alas.)

I narrow my eyes at him. "How can you trust me after everything?"

Snow looks surprised at that. He falls silent, chewing on his lip and staring off, considering it.

The gormless nightmare, has it only just occurred him that he’s standing here, naked and exposed in front of his only-very-recently-ex-nemesis? Did he forget that he’s letting a vampire suck his cock? Did he ever stop to consider any of this at all?

"I don't know,” Snow finally says. He tops it off with a shrug because _of course he does_. “A few months ago, I'd say I could never trust you. But things have been right educational lately, haven't they, Baz? You've taught me a lot."

I’m gawking. I clear my throat. “I suppose I have, yes.”

Simon runs both hands through my hair now and smiles down at me with such radiance that I fear for my highly flammable nature. "I intend to put it to good use,” he says.

SIMON

Baz is looking at me like I’ve grown an extra head, but also like he wants to punch me—which I think means he actually wants to kiss me. (Maybe he wants to punch the one head and kiss the other one.)(Not that I actually _did_ grow an extra head—)(I should stop thinking about it—knowing my magic, I might accidentally do just that.)

Since I’m pretty sure he does want to kiss me, and since I abso-fucking-lutely want to kiss him, I bend down and do it. He emits a pretty little sound against my mouth as I pull his lip between my own. He tastes like him, but also like something else, so I’ve got to assume that’s _my_ taste. I’m not sure how I feel about tasting my own prick. I’d much rather taste Baz’s.

Actually, that’s a good idea.

I drop to my knees between his and slide my hands down him, to his thighs. Baz is wide-eyed and flushed.

“Snow, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” I say. “Or, well, I want to at least try. Didn’t do all that sucking on your fingers for no reason.”

Baz grips the edge of the bed. “Oh. Yes. Well.” He clears his throat again. “Right.”

I laugh—Baz being anxious is kind of charming. And then I figure it might be kind of rude to laugh when you’ve got another person’s crotch near your face, especially for the first time. I don’t want Baz to think I’m laughing at his junk. It’s very lovely junk. The only laughable thing about it is the fact that I didn’t realize how interested in Baz’s junk I was until just recently.

So…right. Making up for lost time.

Baz is hard and curving, with a large bead of precome budding at the tip. I decide to start there. I lick my lips, take his base into my hand, and curiously lap it up. Baz pulls in a shaky breath and clutches the sheets.

The taste is too faint. I’ll have to work more of it out of him.

Baz’s underside has this solid cord of muscle running along it. (Maybe mine does, too—I’ve never seen the underside of my own prick before.) I drag my tongue up the cord, starting from most of the way down, then flicking up and off at his head. Baz exhales hard, so I do it again, licking him like an ice lolly. Or how a pervert would lick an ice lolly, I guess.

Baz would probably take the piss if he knew I was thinking about food at a time like this, but thinking about ice lollies makes this way less intimidating, so I keep going.

I close my eyes and pull his tip into my mouth and suck on him in a way I’m familiar with.

I’m never going to think about ice lollies the same again.

“Snow…?” Baz’s voice is breathy and wavering.

I open my eyes to look up at him, but don’t pull off. I suck more of Baz into my mouth and hum around him to let him know I’m listening. He growls and then just breathes for a little while, watching me work him in and out.

“Snow…,” Baz tries again. I switch to just sucking on his tip like he did to me. I doubt I do it half as good as he did—_Merlin_, that was fucking brilliant—but I try. I lift my eyebrows at him and hum again. “Are you…,” he starts, “are you really staying with me all summer?”

Now I do pop off of him—it makes a hell of a sound. I swipe the back of my hand across my mouth.

“What?” I say.

Baz scowls. His cheeks are dark (for him). “Hampshire. Are you coming to Hampshire or not?”

“Said I wanted to.” He’s such a git. I stroke up from Baz’s base, all my spit on him easing the friction. “How else am I going to teach you how to be my boyfriend all summer?”

It takes a second…and then Baz smiles. It’s this shaky thing, with his chin tucked down and his lashes lowered. He looks…I don’t know. Demur? Vulnerable? No—_soft_.

Makes my heart squeeze.

I smile right back at him and rub his thigh with my unoccupied hand. “I definitely want that,” I assure him. I try to be soft, too. I lean in to press a warm kiss to his hip. “Okay?”

Baz nods once, twice. “Yeah.”

“Good.” I give him another kiss, to his belly this time. He sighs. Then I kiss his head and get back to it, swallowing down half of him straight away and slowly sucking back off.

I think I’d be more freaked out by having another bloke’s dick in my mouth if I hadn’t already had another bloke’s dick in my _foreskin_. I don’t think it can get any gayer than that.

Besides, this _is_ kind of hot. Baz is panting and moaning and when I do something he really likes, he rolls his hips in this super sexy way. I can taste him properly now, too. It’s a vague flavour, but Baz’s smell is thick and strong here, which makes all of him taste faintly like cedar and bergamot and _Baz_. I love it. I want more of it. Every time he hits the back of my throat, I feel compelled to try to swallow him down. Baz makes a wild sound when I do.

I’m really getting into it—it’s an effort not to reach down and start tugging at myself.

“What about the Mage?”

My eyes fly open and I try to blurt out “_what?_”, but I’ve got a throat full of cock, so it just comes out as a weird gargle. I yank off and ask again.

“The Mage,” Baz says, eyes narrowed. “He’ll blow a gasket.”

I just blink at Baz for second. “Sorry—am I really bad at this?”

Now he blinks at me. “What? No.”

“Then why the _fuck_ are you thinking about the Mage?”

Baz looks embarrassed. He rubs a hand over his face. “Right. Right, sorry.”

I push myself up (my knees were kind of hurting anyway) and straddle Baz. That surprises him—in a good way, seems like. I sling my arms around his neck, and he sets his hands on my hips.

“What stupid thoughts are going through that big head of yours this time?” I ask him.

Baz arches one of his perfect brows. “I was merely trying to figure out the logistics of this little romantic summer holiday of ours.”

“While I’m sucking your cock?”

His brow twitches. “I was, ah....”

I tilt my head and tongue at the corner of my lips while I try to figure him out. Baz’s gaze fixates on my mouth, his eyes dark.

“_Ohhh_,” I finally emit. Baz’s fingers jump against my hips. “You were trying not to come.”

Baz closes his eyes to grimace. “Fuck off, Snow.”

I snicker. “That good, hm? Told you I’m a fast learner.”

Baz opens his eyes to sneer at me properly. “Yes, the list of things you’re good at now has _two_ whole entries. Congratulations.”

I take perhaps a little too much satisfaction in shoving Baz hard by the shoulders. He flops back with a gasp, his hair fanning out attractively. I lean over him, a hand on either side of this head, and grin at his stunned expression.

“Swords and my mouth, yeah?” I clarify. “Ready to see how I do with my fingers?”

There’s a flush high across Baz’s cheeks. His face relaxes, eyebrows lowering, lids drooping. His mouth curls into a wicked smile—the kind that makes me shiver with need. “Quite ready,” he purrs.

BAZ

I push Snow off of me in order to go collect the lube, which I toss at him, and then I root around in our discarded clothes for my wand. (I take a moment to drape my jacket on the back of my chair so it doesn’t get rumpled any further, and I hang the towel back in the bathroom. Snow complains about even this hint of fastidiousness, naturally.)

“Watching you walk around with a stiffy is pretty funny,” is what Snow greets me with as I rejoin him.

I curl my lip. “If I had known you were going to be so bloody mirthful in bed, I wouldn’t have agreed to any of this.”

Snow is all smiles. Resplendent bastard. “Sure, Baz.”

While I fluff my pillows and lie amongst them, Snow sits back on his haunches at the foot of the bed. I draw up my knees, my feet flat to the mattress, and let my legs fall open. I watch Snow watch me, luxuriating in the flashes of excitement across his features.

“You can look _and_ touch, you know,” I say.

Snow gulps so very enticingly. He squirts a rather alarming amount of lube onto his fingers. Perhaps he’s planning my punishment for being such a pill. I think I’d let him.

But no, history has proven that Snow is a truly considerate lover. A fact that still boggles my mind, perhaps now more than ever. Snow—a lover! _My_ lover!

He’s even rubbing the lube between his fingers, warming it up for me. (**You’re getting warmer** is a little too effective for this purpose, regrettably.) Snow’s clean hand pets along my thigh and its joining to my pelvis. I curl my hips up and spread wider. His thumb rubs under my bollocks to massage my taint.

“I’ve had my fill of foreplay, thanks,” I huff at him. It feels fucking marvellous, but I _will_ lose my mind if he doesn’t start stretching me. I need Snow’s cock in me tonight—I _need_ it. I’ve waited too long, worked too hard.

“So demanding,” Snow says, voice thrumming with self-satisfaction. He presses his wet middle finger to me without any further fanfare, immediately setting about smearing lube in circles around the sensitive bud of flesh.

I melt against the pillows with a lusty sigh. Having Snow’s fingers on me is terrifying and wonderful. After everything we’ve done, he’s yet to be inside. His touch is so warm.... It was difficult enough feeling the heat of his mouth wrapped around me, now I get to have that heat _in_ me.

Snow’s finger finally breaches me, forcing me to gasp and tense. I press my hands into the sheets as he leisurely rocks half of his finger in and out, like he’s testing the resistance.

“How’s that?” Snow asks, flicking his eyes up to mine.

“Fine,” I say.

“Just ‘fine’?”

I lift an eyebrow at him. “You’ll have to work harder if you’re looking for a glowing review.”

Snow exhales in what I can only assume is a mixture of frustration and amusement. I consider downplaying the sensations further, but Snow steals my breath away by kissing my hipbone and pressing his finger in down to the last knuckle.

I can’t resist squirming, my hips trying to chase him as he drags his finger back out. Then he pushes fully in, making me toss my head back with a long moan. Snow does it again, slow on the pull and forceful on the push, over and over, drawing all sorts of soft keening sounds out of me.

It’s glorious, feeling something inside—feeling _Snow_ inside—with no action on my part. All I have to do is lie back and revel in both the anticipation for each of his movements and the awe at every rush of pleasure he coaxes out of me.

Snow nuzzles his lips against my thigh while undoing me with a single finger. “How’s _that_?” he asks.

“Fuh…fine....”

He hooks his finger, applying firm pressure to my walls as he withdraws—I whine pathetically. “Sounds better than ‘fine’.” He trails his teeth along my inner thigh.

“Snow,”—I try to sound menacing—“focus less on your ego and more on my prostate.”

His response comes as a pleased growl that ghosts his hot breath along my bollocks. He sits up, gives me a flinty smirk, and then begins breaching me with a very wet second finger.

“Oh, Morgana, _yes_—”

SIMON

Baz acts like a real piece of work, but he’s easier to please than I would’ve guessed. Or maybe I’m that good at this. (A mix of both, probably.) That doesn’t mean I’m not going to work hard for it—I want him so wrecked with pleasure, he can’t even begin to fake composure.

I’m working two fingers into him now. “Great snakes,” Baz gasps, arsehole clenching hard as I try to get past the second knuckle. His hips jerk right off the bed once I succeed, and he lets out this long string of curses.

“Oh, Baz.” I fuck him with small movements, making his rim stretch around those knuckles again and again. What a sight— “If you wanted more inside, you should have just told me.”

“Fuck…you....” He’s probably going for menacing, but it just sounds desperate.

I meet his eyes—they’re blown and heavy-lidded. I grin. “Maybe another time.” I pull out to my fingertips, then shove back in as far as I can. I can barely hear the lewd squelching of the lube over Baz’s cry.

Merlin, he’s breathtaking. Splayed out and straining, naked, drenched in moonlight. _Fuck_.

Baz keeps warming up inside the longer I finger him. His tightness is fucking boggling. If he’s this snug around two fingers, what will it feel like when I put my prick in him? (That _is_ what all of this is leading to, right?)

Can’t think about putting my prick in Baz—it’s getting me too hot. I have to focus on just feeling him, stretching him, doing whatever I can to make him ready for me.

I find a tactic: I nudge my way inside, stroking at Baz’s walls as I go, searching out all the different spots that make him gasp and writhe, and then I pull out with one smooth drag before starting it all over again.

Each time I withdraw, Baz makes this low, aching sound. His body doesn’t want to let me go—his muscles flutter, like he’s sucking on me, drawing me back in.

He’s trembling. Eager.

_Hungry_.

I’m hungry, too.

“Baz,” I groan.

“Yes, _yes_, Snow—”

Baz is growling in this breathy, musical way. I want to draw more sounds out of him—I want to play him, make him sing. But I also want to fuck him. I want to fuck him _so bad_—

I’m about to ask for it—Baz definitely seems eager enough—but then he reaches down to clutch at my forearm with both hands.

“More,” he begs. Baz grips my arm tight and pushes onto my hand with a thrust of his hips. “_More_, Snow—” His expression is wild.

“Holy shit,” I blurt. I scramble to scoot closer, sure to keep my fingers hooked in Baz as he humps at my hand again. “Love it that much, huh, Baz?”

“Yes— Fuck. _Yes_, Snow—” His sounds come more freely now. Deep, dark pleas mixing in with high whimpers when I stroke his prostate just right. (I mean, I’m assuming that’s what’s happening here.) “More…Crowley…yes, fuck— Like that, Snow, right there—_ahhnn_—just like that!”

I only have to wriggle my fingers—Baz is doing the rest of the work. He’s holding tight and fucking himself onto me with a rhythm that keeps falling apart more and more. His cock is drooling continuously and bobbing about with each of his ruts. He’s so desperate, so _hot_—I’m in danger of coming just from watching him.

“You look so good, Baz,” I groan at him. I wonder if he can even hear me over all his moaning and the wet sounds between his legs. “So eager for it. Listen to you—_Merlin—_you’re gagging for it.”

Baz shoots me a look that’s probably supposed to be intimidating. He’s flushed and sweating and all twisted up with intense pleasure. _I’m_ gagging for it just watching him.

“_Keep going_,” he insists, voice breaking. He’s trembling so hard, his hips can’t hold a rhythm. He can’t hold anything at all—he releases his crushing grip on my arm and tears at the sheets. I don’t hesitate to start thrusting at him again, using the rhythm he humped with. He pinches his eyes shut. “Oh, Snow, oh, Crowley, yes, oh, please, _please_—”

I want to ask him if I can switch out my fingers for my cock, but he’s already mindless with how close he is, and I want Baz coherent when I push into him for the first time. (Which might not be today after all. But that’s all right. We have time.)

Baz keens and shoves his feet and shoulders into the bed to brace himself as his hips lift up and up, like he’s reaching out for that peak of pleasure. I lean into it, sure to give him my all, hitting his swollen prostate every time.

He sucks in a breath, holds it, then goes perfectly quiet and still—

And then he’s coming, groaning, bucking and spasming around my fingers. It’s such a fucking display. I’m pretty sure the burn of tired muscles in my hand and arm is the only thing keeping me from titling over the edge just from witnessing this.

And then he’s collapsing, whimpering and shuddering. I slow to a stop. The aftershocks keep rocking through him long after. He’s making all these soft sounds between tightly pressed lips. I watch him breathe, watch his expression slowly soften....

I realize I was so busy staring at, well, _all_ of him, I didn’t see him shoot his load. I look down at his cock to check for how much came out—

There’s only the stream of precome running off his belly. He’s still hard as a rock.

“Baz…?”

He croons a soft sound in response.

“Did…did you come…?”

Baz finally opens his eyes to give me a lust-drunk look. “Was that not obvious…?”

“But, I mean.” I look down at his weeping erection. “There’s no spooge.”

He curls his lip in distaste. (I guess at my word choice.) “Well spotted.” He clears his throat and shifts his hips. His arse isn’t as tightly clamped to me any more, though I can still feel the occasional flicker of pleasure run through him. “That can…happen. From an exceptionally good prostate massage.”

My eyebrows go up. “What was that, Baz? _‘Exceptionally good’_?”

Baz rolls his eyes—I can see his mouth quirking against a smile. “_Yes_, Snow. It was a very good showing.” I grin wide. “Ugh, stop it.” Baz flaps a hand at me. “Pull out and go wash your hands.”

I grumble about it but do as I’m told.

BAZ

_Seven snakes_…that was…otherworldly.

I stay amongst my pillows and attempt to catch my breath.

I’m still painfully aroused. I’m light-headed with it. I nearly begged for Snow to just shove it in.

He’s back from washing his hands all too soon—I’ve barely begun to collect myself. I prop myself up on my elbows and follow Snow with my eyes. He deposits a wet cloth on the table between our beds. I suppose he’s too lazy to want to get up again.

He better not be too lazy to fuck me into the mattress.

“You’re right,” I say, “you _do_ look ridiculous walking around with a ‘stiffy’.”

“See!” Snow laments. He settles back in at the foot of my bed, donning a pout and an erection, which is a combination that I didn’t expect to find quite this alluring.

“We’ll just have to do something about it, won’t we?” I give a quick flick of my eyes down to his flushed cock, then raise an eyebrow at him expectantly.

“That would be good.” Snow’s gaze fixates on my crotch. I’m still slick with lube. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he gulps.

“See something you want, Snow?” I settle my legs on either side of his and scoot down closer to him.

“Yeah.” Snow’s fiery eyes meet mine. He looks like he’s holding back from tackling me.

I nudge my hips into his lap. Snow inhales sharply. His hands snatch me up, squeezing my hips.

“Tell me,” I rumble. I give a roll of my hips.

Snow growls in the back of his throat. “I want....” His eyes keep jumping back and forth between my face and my arse. When he looks there again, I squeeze my hole to entice him. He groans and grips me harder.

“_Tell me_.” I push forwards until Snow’s underside is pressed between my cheeks, then I lift, rubbing my slickness up his length.

Snow snarls and yanks me closer, trapping his cock between me and his stomach. I grind on him again, moaning with delight. He ruts into it. “Let me, Baz,” he begs, voice tight with crumbling restraint.

I run my tongue along my lips in what is likely an overly licentious manner. Though Snow looks like he’s about to explode from the sight, so perhaps it’s exactly right. “Let you _what_, Snow?” I bite out. I flex my arse and give him another slow, wet grind.

Snow is breathing hard through his nose, gritting his teeth, like he’s barely holding on. He’s all tangled up in pain and pleasure. It’s a thoroughly bewitching look on him.

“Let—” he tries. Snow slides one hand from my hip, travelling his way up the centre of my torso until he’s cupping the side of my neck and jaw. His hands leave a trail of unbearable heat behind. I whimper and press into it. “Baz,” he tries again. “Let me make love to you.”

That’s not at all what I expected him to say.

Another whimper falls out of me, unbidden.

As has been proven time and again to be my curse, I am powerless to resist crashing into him—I surge up to grasp the back of his neck, and Snow doesn’t delay in circling his arms around me to pull me up—pull me _closer_.

(Nothing could ever be close enough—)

My mouth collides with his. I clumsily kiss him. It’s firm and insistent and far too revealing of the swirling emotions rattling my ribcage: love, desire, fear, relief, _hope_....

I break away due to the breathlessness of divine anguish. “Yes,” I exhale against his mouth. “Do that. Please.”

Snow holds me to him, embrace strong and burning, as he kisses a path over my cheek, jaw, neck…like I’m something to cherish. It’s too much. (It’s not enough.)

“I don’t think I’ll last long,” he warns in between kisses.

“That’s fine.” I tangle a hand into his curls. “I might not either.”

Snow nods. “Okay.” He leans back enough to look at me. Those unremarkable blue eyes of his do nothing to temper the affection threatening to burst from my body. “Okay, let’s do it.”

“Okay.”

“Should we…um. How should we…?”

“Oh. Well....”

“Like this? With you here?”

“No. Like _this_.”

SIMON

I’m terrified.

Baz is lying back again, hair tumbling over his pillows, his neck angled in this showy way. (I guess you don’t need to be a vampire to appreciate a beautiful neck.) He’s giving me this expectant look through his lashes. His breathing is shallow already.

I’m not sure why I’m terrified.

Baz wants me. (I’m still not used to that, Baz wanting me.)(Anyone wanting me.) He’s ready. He’s _here_, right where I want him. Where I’ve always wanted him.

Right.

It’s momentous, is the thing. It’s what we’ve been careening towards for way too long. And now the moment’s here, and I’m worried I’m going to blow before I even get all the way inside.

At least being terrified helps to lessen how starved for him I am.

While I get myself lubed up, Baz plucks up his wand from the bedside table and casts **better safe than sorry** on my crotch. It makes me shudder—Baz’s magic feels like fire licking at my veins.

All of Baz does, really.

Right.

Baz has been burning for me for seven years. And I’ve been burning too, in my own stupid way. We’re together now, we’ve got all the time in the world, we don’t have to do this right now.

But we _want_ to. Why keep waiting?

I position myself between Baz’s legs and brace myself on one arm. Baz makes this creaky groan as I guide myself with my other hand, pressing my tip to him.

So what if I come too fast? I’ve already bollocksed up plenty of things in front of Baz.

I rub myself over him—_Crowley, that’s good_—making sure his entrance is well wet.

“Snow....”

I glance up at Baz to find him staring at me with an expression I can’t begin to describe. Definitely soft. Open. Filled with yearning. Makes my breath catch.

If I fuck this up…well. Baz can have a good gripe about it and mock me. That’s not new.

All of that, and I still like him.

All of that, and _he_ still likes _me_.

I bite my lip, trying to hold back a dopey grin.

Right.

“Ready?” I ask. I give a small nudge, just enough that it feels like Baz’s rim is kissing at my slit.

Baz’s lashes flicker. “Excessively,” he breathes.

So…I push in.

BAZ

I hold the sheets tight enough I might tear them. I hold my breath, too.

It’s similar to the initial discomfort I’ve put myself through on numerous occasions, yet nothing like it at the same time.... It’s the culmination of years of yearning, the manifestation of everything I’ve ever wanted: Simon Snow braced above me, with his fumbling and babbling and his mess of bronze curls and his jutted chin and his boring blue eyes and all his freckles and moles.

It’s more than I can bear.

The moment Snow is deep enough that he no longer needs his hand for guidance, I claw at his arm, desperate to have him closer. Snow follows willingly. He slips into me deeper as he settles, blanketing me with all his weight and heat.

He’s scalding. I might be melting. I might be dying.

It _feels_ like dying. In a good way.

Like a transcendent last gasp.

Like a moment of immeasurable relief before finally being freed.

“All right, Baz?” he murmurs into the crook of my neck. I don’t know when he got there. He’s braced on his elbows on either side of my head. My arms are looped under his, my nails digging into his shoulder blades.

“Y…yeah....”

“Yeah?” He keeps pressing in. A moan floats out of me on a shaky exhale. “You’re sure?”

“_Yes_, Snow,” I snap—or rather, I try. It’s difficult to be querulous when Simon Snow is splitting me apart with his cock.

“Right then.”

Snow tucks himself up against me even closer. I adjust the angle of my hips while hitching a leg over his waist, and that’s when it all fits into place—we both moan as Snow fully seats himself inside me.

“Oh…oh fuck, Baz....” He’s trembling with the exertion required to not fall apart. “You— Do you…need a minute…?”

“No.” Maybe. I don’t care. There’s some pressure, some discomfort—none of that matters. I need him to move, to do this properly. No more waiting. No more holding back— “Move for me, Snow.” I prompt him with a roll of my hips—he groans handsomely.

Snow is cautious when he draws himself out. I pull in a breath as he leaves and then let it out with a soft cry as he buries himself back inside. He falters, then does it again, just as slow.

“You’re,” he grumbles, “so tight. So tight for me. Merlin—I’m going to die.”

I arch into each cautious rock of our bodies. “Mm, good,” I purr. My cock is tucked between our bellies and smearing precome all over us. “That was my master plan all along: death by lovemaking.”

Snow releases a charming sound. “I’d not mind that.”

I kiss his cheek. “Noted.”

Snow keeps moving against me, gentle, unhurried. His breath is hot against my neck—he’s panting so hard. He really won’t last long. I need to savour every second, every sensation and smell and taste.

“Snow…?”

“Yeah?” He lifts his head to stare down at me. Mother of Morgana, he’s stunning.... His sweat shimmers in the moonlight. I can’t believe I get to see this, get to _have_ this—

“Why, in the name of magic,” I croak, “aren’t you kissing me?”

Snow’s smile is devastating. My chest is going to burst.

He kisses me like he adores me, like _he’s_ the lucky one in this scenario. He spills all of his sounds into my mouth while his hips continue their slow undulations against my own. All I can do is moan pathetically as he fills me—fills every derelict nook of my body—with heat and pleasure and _him_.

I feel a wave of something too profound to name sweep through me. I break the kiss for fear of crying. Snow isn’t discouraged—he lays kisses on my face instead. My breaths come fast and wet.

“Amazing, Baz,” he huffs against my forehead. “You feel. Fucking amazing.”

“Not—” I’m cut off with a gasp when Snow presses in a touch more forcefully this time, complete with a soft slap of his sack against my arse. “Not too bad yourself,” I finally manage.

Snow gazes down at me lustily, his mouth hanging open in a breathless grin as his tongue prods along his bottom lip. It’s horrific, how erotic I find it.

“Probably not as good as your dildo though, yeah?” Snow’s voice is thick. He pushes us flush together and gives his hips a wriggle, like he’s trying to get every last millimetre inside. It jostles a sharp keen out of me.

“Better than,” I blurt. I can feel my walls quaking around him. It’s mind-meltingly good, and only made improbably _better_ when Snow retreats just so before intruding on me so completely once again.

“Really?” Snow growls. “How so?”

I don’t know what it says about me that I am so painfully aroused by him using me as an ego-stroke. I love it. I’ll give him the praise gladly. Chomsky knows I’ve only ever cut him down in the past.

“Hotter,” I moan. Snow gives another one of those lovely shoves. “W-warmer,” I clarify, “but…yes, sexier, too.” I bring my other leg up around him, my heels resting on his arse. I can feel the muscles there flex as he presses into me once more. “Alive,” I add weakly, “so alive.” Snow’s emitting these gruff sounds but is otherwise quiet, letting me talk—which is nearing impossible. My eyes flutter shut after Snow makes them roll back with a particularly good push. “_You_,” I whine. “Just _you_.”

SIMON

Baz is so fucking lovely, it _hurts_.

I liked going slow and gentle, just rocking in him while we kissed. It was beautiful—my heart was squeezing, and—I don’t know. I felt a little choked up.

Now I’m still going slow, but it’s so different. Deliberate. Baz is crumbling from it. He can’t even form a complete sentence. In fact, it seems like he can only manage little things like _‘yes’_ and _‘please’_ and _‘Snow’_.

Maybe—maybe if I can hold on just a little bit longer—I can push an orgasm right out of him.

I stop so I can lean back on one extended arm, get some better leverage. Baz makes the most petulant whining sound when I do. He opens his eyes to glare at me—it’s hardly intimidating, with how well shagged he looks.

I can’t help grinning. “Baz,” I coo at him. I rub my other hand down his side to grip his hip, pressing my thumb into the give of soft flesh in the bowl of his pelvis. His cock and hole twitch roughly. “Can I do it harder?”

Baz gives me a shitty little sneer that makes my guts twist. “I don’t know, Snow. _Can_ you?”

A growl rips its way out of me as I give Baz one good, _hard_ thrust. He cries out, his head tossing back. I let him have a moment to just tremble, then I do it again.

“_Fuck_—!” he sobs.

“_Yeah_, Baz,” I grunt. “That’s it.” I draw out even further this time before slamming back in. “You like that, don’t you?”

“_Yes_,” he wails. “Crowley, yes—_please_!”

Having Baz so blissed out that he’s willing to cry and beg for me is something I don’t think I could ever get tired of.

I try to get a pattern going, but I’m already so fucking close. Baz’s body is constricting on me even more now—it’s making my brain go all fuzzy. He’s reached down to pull at his cock with long, eager strokes. We’re watching each other, at where my cock disappears into his swollen entrance again and again. I’m choking out wild sounds, and so is he. And every time I drive into Baz, there’s a harsh smack of my bollocks against him and so many filthy sounds from how wet with lube we are.

“Oh, Baz, fuck yes, so—_hngh_—so tight, so good, you’re squeezing on me, Baz, it’s—_uhnn_—fucking brilliant, _perfect_, you’re so perfect, baby, you take it so good—”

Baz sobs and snaps his head to the side, his free hand flying up to cover his mouth. It’s just jarring enough that it yanks me back from hitting the point of no return.

“No—no, Baz.” I slow down to a more gentle fuck and shift my weight so I can take Baz’s wrist into my hand. “C’mon. Don’t do that.” Baz glares at me, looking a little annoyed, but mostly dazed and wary. “Don’t hide from me,” I urge, trying to sound soft. “I want all of you.”

Baz simply breathes hard for a minute. I can see the muscle in his jaw working. Then, he slowly relaxes his hand.... He lets me pull it away. When he opens his mouth, I can see his fangs, gleaming white and pushing out over his lip.

My cock jumps inside him.

“_Wicked_,” I say. It kind of comes out as a moan.

“You’re an idiot,” he murmurs. There’s a faint slur to his speech. I don’t know why, but I find that hot, too.

“Yeah. And you like it.”

I slide my fingers between Baz’s and pin his hand to the bed near his head. His eyes light up with hunger. It’s disturbingly sexy when he looks at me like he wants to devour me. Even Baz’s arse is gluttonous, clamping on me like he’s trying to suck the come right out of me.

I start working my hips back up to our earlier speed. Baz rocks under me, meeting my rhythm, pushing onto me and into his hand.

“Baz—” I’m on the brink right away. I’m gulping air. It’s too much. He feels too good, smells and sounds too good, and now with those fucking _fangs_— “I— I can’t—!”

“Go ahead, Snow. Do it. Come,” he orders, voice dripping with desperation. “And don’t stop.”

“Fuck—!”

“I’m close, so close.” Baz squeezes my hand tight—I’d be more worried about the crush of it if my world wasn’t going white— “Give it to me, you glorious fuck. Come in me. Give me all of it…!”

I think I’d burst from Baz Pitch begging for me to come in him even if I wasn’t already careening towards explosion. I mean. How could I _not_?

I cry out some combination of curses and his name—I think it might be _“fuck, Baz, take it, take it!”_, but I’m so bloody ruined, it might just be a mangled howl.

And then I’m _going off_—

BAZ

Last time, with Simon behind me and between my thighs, with him invading all of my senses, I thought that I was finally full. That I could finally be satiated. I was so wrong.

_This_ is it. This is that moment. With his eyes locked to mine, our fingers entangled, and my name on his lips as his pelvis stutters against my body with each wave of orgasm that pulses through him, pulses through _me_, smearing my insides with his come.

I squeeze on him, ravenous for it. “That’s it, fill me, Simon. Fill me up, and don’t you_ dare stop._”

Simon growls brokenly. He continues pumping his hips even as I can see the drunken weariness in his eyes.

“Good,” I whimper. “Good boy, Simon. Just like that.”

A harsh shudder goes through me when I feel his come leaking out, hot and messy as he keeps churning me up with his cock. I imagine how good it must look to see it dribbling out. Though it’s almost a pity that any of it is getting away.

That’s all right. I can have his come whenever I want it now. The thought causes an anticipatory clench of my body ahead of the climax that’s ratcheting ever closer.

“_Baz_,” Simon warbles.

“Yes, love,” I gasp. “That’s it, oh,_ yes, Simon_—”

I buck erratically into my fist and onto Simon’s spent prick. His face is twisted from over-stimulation.

He’s working so hard for me.

I’ve never loved him more.

“Simon, _Simon_—!”

He’s wonderful.

He’s everything.

He’s _mine_.

_Simon Snow is mine!_

It’s a sublime thought to reach orgasm to.

SIMON

Baz is too far gone to be self-conscious about his fangs. He throws his head to the side and cries out openly for the first time, no hiding his face from me or pressing his lips together. It’s just pure bliss. I’m stupidly happy about it.

I curl over him as he comes, nuzzling and kissing at his neck. He sobs sweetly.

Once Baz is no longer adding to the splattering of come all over his stomach, I slow my movements to a stop. His body keeps shuddering and flexing on me, torturing me. It’s all so hot, I’m still half-hard in him. I don’t think I could actually go again, but Merlin and Morgana, part of me wants to.

I give his jaw a kiss then push back enough to stare down at him. Baz is still gripping my hand tight, but he’s otherwise melting into that post-orgasm haze. I can even see his fangs gradually withdrawing. I figure that’s a good time for me to withdraw, too—he releases a breathy sound as I pull out.

Baz slowly opens his eyes and turns his head my way. His grey eyes look greener and clearer like this, with his cheeks so flushed and his gaze so watery. There are tear streaks down his face.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask.

Baz breathes. Swallows. “No....”

“Happy tears, then?” I peel my hand from his so I can brush away the wetness on his cheekbone with my thumb.

“Overwhelmed,” Baz admits so softly. I’ve never heard him so soft. He lets his eyes fall closed again—tears cling to his long lashes. “I’ve wanted this for so long....”

There’s a squeeze in my chest, like Baz has reached inside me to grab my heart and not let go. Fuck, I hope he doesn’t let go—

“Did it live up to your expectations?” I ask.

Baz smiles a bit at that. He sets his gaze on me, but this time there’s something more in his eyes. Not just tearful overload—there’s a warmth. And humour. And vulnerability.

“It was tolerable,” he says.

“Oi.”

Baz’s smile widens. He drapes his sluggish arms around my neck. “Adequate, even.”

Now I’m smiling too. “You just hate to spare me a compliment, huh?”

“Oh, tosh,” he murmurs as he eases me down to his lips. “These sorts of things are supposed to go poetically unsaid.” I grumble, but briefly press my lips to his. “Besides,” he continues, and then gives me another kiss before continuing further, “my body has been singing your praises all evening, wouldn’t you say?”

I kiss him through a grin. “Yeah. It sure has.” And then I kiss him some more.

It’s slow. Lazy. Baz’s fingers comb through my hair in calming strokes. I lie my weight on him as we press and slide our lips together.

It’s…well.

It’s downright tender.

Thank magic.

BAZ

Simon eventually pulls back—I’m immediately cold from his absence. He picks up the wet cloth on the bedside table and hands me my wand.

“Warm it up, will you?”

I cast **you’re getting warmer**, and then he shakes the steaming cloth out until it’s a more tolerable temperature.

First, he wipes my stomach clean—I jump at the sensations, even though he’s being more gentle than one might assume Simon Snow to be capable of.

Then, he wipes himself. I’m far too drained (physically and emotionally)(and possibly also sanguinely) to consider further kinaesthetics…yet even so, the sight of him handling his flaccid member is quite alluring. I can’t believe I get to have this, get to see this—my mind is still reeling. (Though it’s more of a weary wobble, given how spent I am.)

And then, Simon folds the cloth over and begins to wipe at the mess of lube and come between my legs.

I tense. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up, Baz.” It sounds positively endearing.

I’m mortified, even further so by the reverence with which he does it. But I can’t bring myself to stop him. I close my eyes and try not to immolate from humiliation—or from my staggering affection for him.

Simon crawls up next to me when he’s done. (I don’t dare ask where he’s deposited the cloth—I’m too exhausted to care.) He pulls at the bedclothes, getting them out from underneath us so that we can burrow in.

“Budge up,” he huffs.

My eyelids feel heavy, but I manage to open them enough to shoot him a disgruntled look. “Are you sleeping in my bed?”

“Yeah. Better get used to it.”

I scoff, just to be difficult. I also roll away from him onto my side, giving him room so that he knows I truly do want him here. (I _hope_ he knows—)

Snow pulls the covers higher, tucking them around me nice and snug. Then he settles his arm around my waist and shifts closer. “I’ll keep you warm.”

“Who knew,” I murmur, my heart in my throat, “you’d be such a considerate boyfriend?”

I can feel Simon smile against the back of my neck. His breath ruffles my hair. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Pitch.”

“Good thing we have the summer,” is the last thing I manage to say before drifting off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO very much for reading this, and for all the comments and messages! The encouragement has been staggering, 🖤 I hope you enjoyed the conclusion.  
You can find me on tumblr ([krisrix.tumblr.com](https://krisrix.tumblr.com/)) if you'd like to chat or see my art or get sneak peeks of future fics. I try to post a little snippet every Sunday.  
If you have any interest in this getting a sequel...let me know~

**Author's Note:**

> This was gonna be a one-shot, but then my mind went haywire, as it is wont to do. This is my first time posting something without the rest of the fic being finished beforehand, so bear with me...! I'll try to get the next chapters up quickly.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Endgame](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22601737) by [NineMagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks), [Sourcherrymagiks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourcherrymagiks/pseuds/Sourcherrymagiks)


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